Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
by Wends
Summary: Trowa teams up with a shadow from the recent past to solve the mystery behind the plot revolving around Quatre. Sequel to 'Once'. [TQ and light HD, rated for plentiful violence, lemony scented content, and tons of foul language.]
1. Chapter I

Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W nor any song by Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha. 

A/N: Gun information is at the end of the chapter. Just some clarification of the stats of the weapons I'm using.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_there are some things I'll live without__  
but I want you to know that I need you right now__  
suffer my desire__  
suffer my desire__  
suffer my desire for you_

_-In The Arms Of Sleep-_

-- 23:15, Yesterday --

The soft glow of florescent light dimly illuminated the rounded form of the binoculars as they were lifted before their user's face. Hazel eyes squinted as they peered through the small lenses, focusing on the greatly magnified image the device provided.

A sly smirk took thin, wiry lips as the hand that held those binoculars tightened its grip on the instrument.

"Bingo."

Chuckling quietly, his rough, dark masculine voice flowing easily from his throat past his lips similar to the purr of a jungle cat, the shadow-shrouded man leaned towards the window he was peering through. Black gloved hand gripping the windowsill; the bare one quickly adjusted its grip on the binoculars.

"And here I'd thought you'd be more careful than this these days, boy. Especially considering that you well know you're being hunted."

Still snickering, the man backed away from the office window even as his subject of study turned sharply, bright aqua eyes focused in his exact direction, blond hair sweeping away from those big orbs with the sudden speed of his spin to face the window of his dwelling. As darkness overtook his form once more, he lowered the binoculars, removing the sight of the narrow-eyed blond boy from his eyes.

Turning on his own heel, the tall black-clothed man walked calmly towards the door of the office he had used as an outpost, stopping for but a moment by the large oak desk that dominated the room to pat the still, shaggy head of the man who sat in the high-backed chair stationed before it.

As the man's brown-haired head lolled loosely forward, the intruder smirked again. "Wonder how pissed they're going to be when they discover you dead at your desk tomorrow morning, Mister Malachi. They'll be damning your soul for committing suicide right in the middle of your legal battle with Narington Incorporated."

The gloved hand slipped the dead man's stiffening fingers around the Beretta 950 Jetfire (1), turning the blood-coated gun towards his stationary, bloodied face.

"Pity I've got to part with such a nice gun, but it's the cheapest one I've got. You're only worth a 950."

With another laugh, turning on his heel and sweeping his long, unbound brown hair behind his shoulders, the man marched confidently out of the office.

He made certain to swing past the incinerator on the way out, quickly donning his clean white t-shirt and blue jeans and burning his blood-splattered black ensemble with the glove he'd used to hold the weapon he'd murdered the stout lawyer with.

With hands stuffed deeply in his pockets and a smile upon his face, the man walked out into the night, vanishing into the alleyways behind the corporate building as easily as a shadow into the darkness of night.

-- 10:49 --

The room's heavy darkness coated everything within its depths, even as the bright sun of the late morning threw its rays about with careless abandon. Barely visible in the dark recesses of the small hotel room, its interior blocking the sun's desperate attempt to light it with dusty mini-blinds, the tall man shuffled over to the ringing phone. Lifting the handset from its base, he pressed the 'on' button and held it to his ear. "Yo," he groggily grunted into the device.

"How did it go, my friend?" the scratchy voice on the other end of the device questioned merrily.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, the man yawned. "Well as can be expected. No one's tied us to Malachi's death yet and with the precautions I've taken, no one ever will. We've got nothing at all to worry about."

"Any contact with the target?"

"Oh, plenty of it," he muttered into the phone as he swept his hair out of his face, pushing the long brown tendrils behind his ears with callous-covered fingers. "Only thing I fear is that he knew he was being observed. Looked right at me – probably was detecting me."

"You really think his reach can extend that far?" the voice on the other end of the phone wondered.

"I'm certain of it. C'mon, you've worked with him before. You know what his capabilities are."

"Yes, yes. Any other news?"

"We aren't going to be able to eliminate him easily. Not without drawing suspicion. And that's exactly what we're trying to avoid, neh? Especially with Century Discover so prominently thrusting itself into the limelight of the political world right now."

"In other words, you can't simply assassinate him because you don't want your actions to be tied to them."

Chuckling, the man laid down heavily on his bed with a grunt. "Got it. Eliminating him now will do nothing but call upon the rage of the citizen populace of the entire damned Earth Sphere. He's got the love of most of the Nation, you know."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I'm gonna lay low for awhile. Keep a careful eye on him. Maybe get someone else in there to keep their eyes on him, or get someone else out there to see what's up with their involvement with the old Lunar Base."

"That doesn't give us any sort of plan which will result in our desired end, old friend."

"Yeah, yeah. Let me finish." Sighing as he tightened his grip on the phone, he shook his head. "I'll get someone else to take my position out in the field. I'll keep a close watch on the kid and make certain that I can sully his reputation. Either that, or that I can isolate him and eliminate him on my own. Set it up to look like a suicide."

"Like you did for Malachi?"

"Exactly. No one would question it, considering the stress he's got on his head right now."

"Hm. Always could count on you for a level head and decent plans, old buddy of mine."

With a snicker, he rolled over on his bed, his voice chipper and bright as he chortled into the handset. "Go to hell, Xavier."

"Been there, done that," the voice on the other end of the line laughed.

"Well, I'll talk to you later. I should be getting out of dodge within an hour or so. If nothing else, I can start getting my field replacement. You want him reporting to you?"

"No, no. I'll set up a representative or something."

Chuckling, he propped his chin up on his hand. "Still not willing to face danger yourself are you, you fucking coward?"

"I've faced it more than necessary through my life. I don't want to risk myself any longer. Besides, if you're going to fetch who I think you're going to fetch, then I'd be a fucking madman to meet up with him in person."

"Readin' my mind there, Xavier?"

"Fuck off. Just know that he's in the area, and that you were quite impressed with his skills last time we had to deal with him."

"What can I say? It's no ordinary boy that can escape from OZ security so many times with such incredible ease, infiltrate even Lady Une's trusted cohorts, and aid in bringing around the end of the Eve Wars."

"Of course, of course."

Closing his hazel eyes, the man with the handset smirked. "Yeah, a representative will be good, then. He would recognize you. And I doubt that even the chaos of the wars and the stagnant flow of the last two months since they crashed to their termination have yet to erase your ugly fucking mug from his brain."

"Or yours."

"Heh."

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. "So, how are you planning to recruit him? You realize he'll recognize you as well."

"Don't worry about me, old friend. I've got my ways."

"Oh great. You're going to bind and gag him in the middle of the night, pump him so full of tranquilizers that he won't be able to see straight for five days, and throw him at my doorstep, aren't you?"

Laughing outright, the man slowly rolled over, reaching towards the plastic rod that was connected to the mini-blinds. Giving it a half turn, he squinted as sunlight poured into the room. "Oh, shut up. You'll see soon enough."

"I'm certain I will. When you fetch him, why don't you send him to Alpha One Niner?"

"You're gonna make me send him all the way out THERE? Gee, why don't you just have me drop him in the middle of the fucking Valley?"

"Oh, come on! It's not that terrible of an inconvenience, is it?"

"I guess not." Closing his eyes against the bright rays of light, he sighed. "I'll do what I'll do. Just be ready for it, Xavier."

"Sure will."

Lifting the phone away from his ear, he pressed the off button and stared at the device for a few moments.

Pressing the on button once more, he slowly dialed a set of numbers.

"Hello?" the young feminine voice on the other end of the line chirped.

"Hi, honey. Just calling to tell you that I won't be home for awhile."

-- 09:10, 3 Days Ago --

Quatre Raberba Winner sighed quietly as he walked into the large office, eyes closed and face downcast. Slowly lifting his head, he cracked his eyes open, squinting as the sunlight that poured in through the giant windows that made up the eastern wall of the room danced about, bounding off the beveled edges of the long glass table at which his board was seated, patiently awaiting his arrival. Walking to the high-backed black leather chair that sat at the head of that long table, Quatre nodded to each as he walked past them. He laid his briefcase upon the table and carefully undid the latches even as he nodded to the two men that had escorted him to the table's end. "You two may go," he said, dismissing the two muscular Arabs of their duty of guarding him. Both bowed their heads before quietly leaving the young billionaire with his board heads.

As he slid into his seat looking nearly lost in the huge cushions of the black chair and almost entirely hidden behind his overstuffed briefcase, the blond teenager smiled cheerfully to the gathering within the room. "Good morning!"

"Good morning, Quatre-sama," one man immediately replied, being echoed shortly thereafter by the rest of the room's inhabitants. "If you don't mind dispensing with the formalities, we need to get this meeting underway as quickly as possible – we're already running quite late, sir."

"My apologies," Quatre stated, bowing his head. "Traffic this morning was fairly atrocious."

"You should have taken into account that the visiting Ambassadors and their constituency would bring higher traffic to the downtown region than usual, Quatre-sama," one man blurted.

"Of course. Once again, I do apologize. So, without any further adieu, let's get to business, neh? Talk to me, gentlemen." Folding his hands over his lap the teen leaned back in his chair, eyes critical and narrowed focusing on those seated before him.

Report after report was made – reports concerning the welfare of each department within the lofty expanses of the corporation known as Winner Industries, of which the young boy at the head of the table was owner and CEO. Reports of employee demands and concerns, reports of funding and budgeting concerns, reports of product successes and failures, of client concerns and wants.

Every crisis, concern, demand, request, each presented in painstaking detail, found its way by form of report to the corporation head's briefcase. Quatre stared into his steadily filling briefcase with complete and utter dismay in his eyes.

Four hours later, he staggered out of the office, overstuffed briefcase held with both hands and being dragged down the hallway, a promise and a nod towards each member of his board that he would have answers to each of their private and department concerns by the end of the work week.

Casting an odd smile at one of his board members, he nodded in his direction. "Especially yours. I shall have an answer for you by the end of tomorrow evening."

Arching a brow, the man smirked and nodded his head slowly. "Thank you, Quatre-sama."

And, lifting his water glass to his lips, that one singled-out businessman watched with narrowed hazel eyes as the blond left the room, escorted by his two burly bodyguards once more.

'Damn you.'

'You've got me pinpointed, don't you?'

'Oh well. On to plan B.'

Packing his own briefcase, the man tossed his thick manila envelope into the carrying case, smirking as its broad expanse neatly covered the Beretta Model 92FS (2) he had laying in its bottom, wrapped in a thinly-crafted lead sheet.

'Maybe another day, dear friend,' he calmly thought towards the gun in his pack. 'He's a bit to wary at this moment for us to strike.'

-- 16:25, 4 Days Ago --

He carefully set his luggage down on the weighing scale. "That's all of it. My briefcase and duffel bag are going as carry-on.

With a smile, the young woman behind the counter nodded. "Very well, sir. Now, let me confirm you flight information. May I see your identification, please?"

"Sure thing." Bringing his wallet out of his back pocket and pulling his card from it, he laid it before the woman, watching as her assistant swiftly tagged his luggage and tossed it onto the conveyor belt that ran behind them.

"So have you been out of Alaska before, sir?"

"I'm not native to this state," he said with a smirk, folding his arms and leaning on the counter. "I moved up here nearly a year ago."

"Oh really?" Smiling, she continued to type information into her terminal, nodding. "Come up here for the scenery? Or maybe for the weather?"

With a sharp bark of laughter, the man brushed his hair behind his ears. "If I'd ever come up here, it'd never be for this fucking lousy weather. Too damned cold for my tastes. But it's where she wanted to live, so here we are."

"You're married?"

"Nah. Not yet." With a nonchalant shrug, he reclaimed his offered identification, an Alaska driver's license, and shoved it into his back pocket.

"Well, here's your ticket. You make certain to call her when you reach L4 and tell her that you're alright, you hear?"

"I most certainly will," the man replied, a wry grin on his face. "She'd murder me if I didn't."

"Have a nice flight!"

Offering the woman a courteous nod, he picked up his briefcase in one hand, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder with his other, grabbed his tickets and walked towards the gate number displayed on his ticket.

Tossing his luggage down on the conveyor belt that ran through the scanner, he walked through the metal detector with a smile on his lips.

He cringed as the alarm went off.

"Must be my keys," he said with a grin, tossing down his hefty key ring and stepping back through, only to have it go off again.

"Berry, have a look at this," the woman behind the scanner's screen said with a frown.

'Shit.'

Soon, the man's bag and briefcase were being sorted through.

A Beretta 950 Jetfire, a Beretta 92FS, A Beretta Cheetah 86 (3) and a Para-Ordnance P13 (4) were tossed onto the belt before him.

"I've got permits for those."

"You'd best display them now, sir," one chubby, gray-haired airport security officer grunted even as he swiped his metal detection wand over him, scowling as it beeped over his boots and belt buckle.

"Sure thing." Calmly the man pulled paperwork from the top of the pile they'd tossed out of his briefcase and waved it. "I'm going to a gun show right after my trip to L4 in Los Angeles, California. Going to sell these babies and see if I can pick up something else interesting to add to my little collection."

"Oh really," the stout security guard grunted as he snatched the papers away from him and began to pour through them, nose mere centimeters away from the white sheets to read the small print that littered their expanses.

"Really."

Thirty minutes later the man found himself seated in an uncomfortable plastic airport terminal seat by his gate, briefcase and duffel bag sitting beside him. Whistling merrily, he watched as yet another plane taxied off the runway and launched into the air.

"Hey, old friend," he called out.

Smirking, seating himself beside the man, the would-be intruder chuckled. "Never could sneak up on you. Surprised you decided to take my little offer – I truly wasn't expecting you to be here this afternoon."

"Shit, with an offer like that, who could refuse?"

-- 15:00, 3 Days Ago --

The contents of the mailbox were stuffed into the carrier's bag.

Whistling merrily as he marched back to his idling van, the mailman looked around himself, observing his surroundings and politely nodding greetings to the guards who kept careful eyes upon him.

'It certainly is a bright and cheerful day today, isn't it?'

With one final wave to the gate guard, he slid into his van, tossing his bag into the back. Driving away, he pointed the van towards the next house on the route. "So, it's how long till the next establishment?"

Muffled yelling burst from the man who laid gagged and bound in the back of the van.

"Oh yes, it lays right over that hill, doesn't it? Fabulous. Meaning that if you were to have a terrible accident right here, nobody would dare question what happened, due to the poor visibility that this hill offers, especially with the bright sunlight flooding your windshield at this time of day and that cliff straight ahead so verily nicely hidden by bushes. What a place for them to forget about guardrails, neh? Especially when you happen to be running a few minutes late on your route."

All color drained from the bound man's face as he watched his captor stop the van in the center of the road.

"Just have to make certain of one little thing before I do this."

Silence filled the back of the van as the intruder lifted one envelope from the mailman's bag and carefully pried it open.

Reading swiftly over the contents, the man chuckled. "Still crushed on that kid, are you? Hmph. And here I thought you'd be giving me information that would hold something worthwhile or of particular relevance to my situation other than his current living establishment's location. Well, at least you'll live with the comfort of knowing that with this particular mail bag having fallen out of this van, your cute little letter will be delivered if not a day or two late. They won't just leave you precious mail sitting out in the middle of the road undelivered."

Resealing the envelope, he shoved it back into the bag. And, slowly untying the man's limbs, he clubbed him firmly over the back of his skull.

"Buckle up," he said with a grin, strapping the man into place and pressing his foot firmly against the gas pedal before giving the van's keys a good, swift turn. And, tossing a few random envelopes onto the back bumper of the vehicle as he walked away, he peeled the rubber gloves he'd worn to keep his fingerprints from marring the interior of the van from his hands and stuffed them into his pockets.

Stepping out of the road through the tall grass, he watched as the van's front wheels spun rapidly in the air, suspended by the jack he'd so carefully propped under the vehicle.

"Jack's back in place, ground's hard asphalt, the wheels aren't going fast enough to leave skid marks… alright. No evidence."

He pulled sharply on the line he'd tied to the small prop that kept the mail van's tires off the ground.

Front end bouncing a couple of times, envelopes flying haphazardly through the air, the vehicle hurtled towards the cliff with unerring straightness.

The man shielded his eyes as the explosion sent a huge ball of fire rocketing up the small hill, dazzlingly bright even when compared to the light of the afternoon sun.

"Thanks for the help."

-- 19:11 --

Trowa Barton stretched as he emerged from his trailer, yawning tiredly.

"Trowa, have you gotten the mail for today?" a voice rang from the trailer.

"Not yet, Cathy."

"Well, will you? I'm too busy to do it right now."

"Sure thing."

Walking to his motorcycle, the young man yawned once more as he straddled the Honda CBR954RR. Easing onto it, jeans getting soaked with the water that had condensed on the cycle's seat after the small bout of drizzle that had washed over the area, he blew into his hands to warm them before drawing his key out of his denim jacket's pocket. Giving it a swift turn he listened to the rumble of the engine below him, a small smile touching his lips. And giving the throttle a small nudge he started the machine rolling down the road, the chill of the quickly cooling air around him unnoticeable through his dark emerald turtleneck and jacket.

He failed to notice that he was being followed.

The black Honda Civic kept its distance.

21:15 –

Trowa sighed as he put the letter down once again.

It'd been the third time he'd read the carefully scribed message.

"So, who's this from?" Catherine asked as she walked into the dark living room, listening to the single song that still poured over the stereo's speakers. Waving a platter of freshly cooked cookies before Trowa's face, she grinned. "Try some."

"Thanks." Carefully lifting one off the plate, he gave the circlet a sniff to ensure that it was safe before nibbling on it. Arching a brow in obvious shock, he nodded before inhaling the rest of the cookie and reaching for another. "It's from Quatre."

"Quatre? Oh, you mean Mr. Winner."

"Aa."

"What did he have to say?" Sitting down beside her would-be brother, the girl smiled, her gesture friendly and curious.

"That he misses me."

"Oh."

Silence slowly fell over them.

Silence was suddenly shattered by a swift knock at the door.

Catherine looked with shock towards the hallway down which the echo of the knock rang, even as Trowa reached for the Davis Derringer (5) he always kept hidden at his waistband. Drawing the miniature gun forth, he stealthily slunk towards the door.

The knock sounded again.

Reaching slowly for the knob, he turned it.

The person on the other side of the doorway screamed as the gun was thrust into his face, and fell to his knees. "Please! Don't shoot!"

"Who are you?" Trowa calmly asked, looking down at the shivering man, his gun still cocked and laying easily in his hand.

"My name's Stephen. Stephen Williams. I just came here because I was told to… to offer someone named Trowa Barton a job."

Emerald eyes narrowing, Trowa frowned. "What kind of job?"

"He… he told me not to disclose details in the open."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. He didn't give me his name."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't tell. He wore a face mask."

"And you trusted him enough to deliver his message?"

"He said he'd murder me if I didn't."

Trowa frowned. Putting his gun away, he sighed. "Stand up."

Stephen did as bade, rising to his feet and throwing his hands into the air, consenting without question or protest to being patted down.

Trowa led the man inside and closed the door.

And, lowering the binoculars he held, the hazel eyed man who hid under the trailer directly across from that housing Barton and Bloom smirked.

'Perfect.'

_tbc..._

_Gun Information: _

(1) Beretta Model 950 Jetfire: Caliber: 25 ACP, Capacity: 8 rounds, Barrel Length: 2.4", Weight: 9.9 ounces, Grip: Checkered plastic (used in fic) or walnut, Sights: fixed, Misc: Tip-up barrel (similar to Model 21), matte or stainless (used in fic) finish, Price: $226 to $267.

(2) Beretta Model 92FS: Caliber: 9mm, Capacity: 10 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.9", Weight: 34.4 ounces, Grip: Checkered plastic or rubber (wood optional (used in fic)), Sights: Adjustable rear, blade front sights, Misc: Squared trigger guard, matte (used in fic) or blued finish, Price: $629 to $2002 (470th Anniversary Edition).

(3) Beretta Cheetah Model 86: Caliber: 380 ACP, Capacity: 8 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.4", Weight: 23.3 ounces, Grips: Walnut, Sights: Adjustable rear, fixed front sights, Misc: Features a tip-up barrel for first-round loading, Bruniton finish, Price: $404.

(4) Para-Ordnance P13: Caliber: 45 ACP, Capacity: 10 rounds, Barrel Length: 4.25", Weight: 28 ounces (alloy) or 36 ounces (stainless steel (used in fic)), Grips: Black plastic, Sights: fixed rear, blade front (3-dot system), Misc: Alloy, steel or stainless (used in fic) frame; black or stainless (used in fic) finish; high capacity magazines available (used in fic), Price: $740 to $799.

(5) Davis Derringer: Caliber: 22LR, 22WMR, 25 ACP or 32 ACP, Capacity: 2 rounds, Barrel Length: 2.4", Weight 9.5", Grips: Laminated wood (used in fic) or pearl, Sights: Blade front, fixed notch rear, Price: $100.


	2. Chapter II

Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W nor any song by Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha. 

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_I lie to be real, and I'd die just to feel  
__why do the same old things keep on happening?  
__because beyond my hopes there are no feelings_

_Tales of a Scorched Earth_

-- 17:14 --

It was one of the oddest establishments on the L4 colony, surviving beyond anyone's hopes or dreams in a land who's overwhelming religious stance prohibited the consumption of the goods they served.

However, with the conglomeration of colonial establishments located at the LaGrange 4 point being the business center it had become over the decades, people who did not claim the Muslim religion to be their own flocked to small hovels such as this, relishing in the rare opportunity to indulge in the one unique item they served that no other place within the cluster would dare to stock – alcohol.

The beat of country music poured over crackling, aged speakers and from the glistening yet dusty jukebox that dominated the corner farthest from the old pine doors, the twang of guitars accompanying laughably melancholic vocals that sang of lost loves stealing favored pickup trucks and running over the old reliable hunting dogs who were loved more than the women who wore their wedding rings on their way out. Barely audible above the laughter and conversations in the room, the music merrily played without stop, switching to yet another song once its original one had finished featuring a man singing about religious figures dropkicking him through the goalposts of life. The clank of dishes being tossed into the large sink that occupied the kitchen in the back of the establishment emerged from time to time from the swinging door beside the long, dark wooden counter that served as a bar and which had every brass stool with its cracked vinyl cushions occupied with the surliest of humanity's masses.

Ranging from the man sitting down in his business suit to enjoy a few beers with his friends after the long hours of work at the office were completed to the large pot-bellied truck driver who'd just pulled in for a rest stop on his way to his next destination, the gathering within the bar was diverse to say the least, leaving it the perfect establishment for any who wished to not be discovered or those who wanted naught but to enjoy a few good beers without interruption to station themselves. Friends were gathered with friends, strangers were chatting and recanting tales of what they'd seen on their extensive voyages through the colonial countryside with those who showed interest. Conversations flowed from loose lip and casually at-ease tongue over plates of greasy, fat-laden food that dripped as it was lifted from platter to mouth and mugs of frothy headed golden beer.

The hefty bartender slowly swiped his rag across his counter, wiping the condensation from the recently received drinks that had been stationed before him away before it could hope to penetrate the water sealant that protected the ancient wood behind which he worked. Glancing over as one of his waitresses approached, he arched a brow as she gave him the orders of the newest people to enter his establishment and nodded. Taking the slip of paper she offered he hung it upon the rotating clips between the front bar and the kitchen that functioned behind the scenes. Soon that rack was spun and the slip of paper retrieved. The smell of fatty hamburgers hitting the grill flooded through the room.

Grabbing one large pitcher, the barkeep turned to his fountain and grabbed the nozzle labeled 'Budweiser' and filled it, tilting the massive container to keep the foaming head that formed under control and reasonably sized. Setting it quickly on a corkboard-topped tray, he fetched a pair of clean glass steins and set them upon the carrying tray as well. Then lifting a hand, he let a sharp whistle loose from his lips.

The summoned waitress quickly lifted her tray with a nod and hauled it off to the ordering party. Making her way fluidly through the gathering, she eased to the table situated under one of the bar's faint bronzed lights and set the tray down. "Here you are, boys," the girl said with a wink, her pigtailed head nodding once. "Your dinner should be up in a few minutes."

"Thanks," one of the men, the one with chocolate brown eyes and shortly cropped brown hair wearing a loose white tee-shirt and faded acid-washed jeans that looked as if they'd seen better days said with a grin, slipping a bill into her apron's pocket and sending her on her way with a smack to her bottom.

His companion, his long brown hair tied behind his head at the nape of his neck with a black elastic tie and his hazel eyes glistening in the faint light of the bar, immediately reached for the nearly overflowing pitcher and set himself to the task of filling the two steins. Fancifully filling them both to their tops without once letting the pitcher's edge come within a foot of either stein's lip, thus leaving a huge roiling bubble of foam gracing their tops, he slid one to his short-haired companion with a grin. "Drink up, Xavier."

"Thank you much," the man called 'Xavier' said with a grin, gripping the foam-slicked handle of his mug and lifting it to his lips.

Lifting his stein, a smirk gracing his chiseled face, the hazel-eyed man softly laughed. "Cheers, then, old friend. Here's to our gloriously bright future."

"Our gloriously bright future, should we succeed of course," the man's companion chuckled, lifting his own stein, chocolate brown eyes glimmering in the faint light of the dingy bar they occupied.

"Of course, of course. But still, always best to be optimistic."

"Oh really?" Xavier chuckled, arching a brow as he set his elbows on the table before him. "That doesn't sound like the you I know, old friend."

"Things have changed for me over the years. Just as they've done for you, Xavier Johnson. If they'd not, you'd still be a fuck-head working for Kesslinger. Still the fuck-head, but not working for him anymore… at least something's changed, besides the width of your waist."

"Oye, oye! Watch your words there," Xavier said, frowning as he slurped his beer and shook his head. "Only reason I'm not working for Kesslinger anymore's 'cause Century Discover offered a much better paycheck. You know that. You switched for the same damned reason."

"Heh. I've got more reasons than that."

"Really? I always thought it was just because you're a greedy bastard."

Hazel eyes shining, the light flooding their depths similar to that of the glow of a predator's eyes, the man snickered. "Well, that plays a factor too."

Xavier laughed quietly. "You can't tell me that your feelings had anything to do with this. If they did, you'd still be bumming around with the polar bears drinking Coke or whatever it is you do in that snow-blanketed Eskimo land."

"Feelings? Ha. They play no part in this. It's just because this is a way to get everything back on the ball, get everything flowing in the direction it should've been going. Same old shit keeps throwing everything askew."

"You sound almost like you're still hoping Kesslinger's plans will work."

"They will, if you give them time." Slowly drawing a mouthful of beer from his stein and swirling it around his teeth, Xavier's companion shrugged. "That's the only hope I still cling to, and the only thing I'll strive to make certain becomes reality. Because those plans will give us the world we miss, the world we've longed for. They'll give us our place in life."

"Still ever the lost soldier, eh?"

"Shit, now we're waxing philosophically," the longhaired man laughed. "I'd think by now you'd be able to tell when I'm bullshitting you."

"Lying son of a bitch," Xavier snorted, a grin taking his lips. "That's just the thing – all you do is lie. How're we supposed to know when you're actually telling the truth?"

"Just the point. You're not. And that's exactly what always has given me the better paycheck."

"Fuck off."

"Will do, once I get back to Alaska."

"You know she'd lop off your nuts for suggesting that."

Grinning wickedly, hazel eyes sparkling, he laughed. "Hell yeah, I realize that."

Xavier shook his head before finishing his beer and holding his mug out for a refill. Nodding as his companion immediately started accomplishing the task, he arched a brow. "So, get your little field replacement out there?"

"Better believe it."

"How the hell'd you manage that? And I thought you were going to toss us together again to reveal the plan, or at least a version of the plan he would be able to swallow, to him."

"I will. I don't plan on doing everything at once. I pace myself, unlike you…. If you'd ever figured out how to take your time to allow things to come to fruition, I wouldn't have had to butcher Chad Lesley last year."

"Come on. You know you wanted to. Besides, not that it makes a difference. He was cannon fodder, if even that. Next to useless."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So, tell me what you did. And please, do tell me when I'm going to be meeting with the man you've got watching the kid."

"You'll be meeting him in three days, at Alpha One Niner like you wanted. And all I did was give him the conjecture that his pookie was in danger again."

Laughing, Xavier shook his head. "Pookie… you're killing me, man."

Sniggering, finishing his own stein and refilling it, the hazel-eyed man waved the waitress back over and gave her the emptied pitcher, requesting a refill before turning back to his apparent friend. "With that little suggestion, he's gonna be on the kid like glue. Told him not to reveal himself less he draw blondie's future assailant's attentions and put him into even further danger as they'd revise their plans, so he'll stay out of the kid's way. No problems there. And tracking him myself to keep an eye on them both shouldn't be a problem."

"Wait a second here, James. You're going to be tracking him anyway? Why the fuck did you throw in a field replacement!"

"Because once the bullets start flying, I don't want to be in the way."

"So you're using your supposed 'replacement' as a bullet sponge?"

"Got it."

-- 21:17, Yesterday --

The person on the other side of the doorway screamed as the gun was thrust into his face, and fell to his knees. "Please! Don't shoot!"

"Who are you?" Trowa calmly asked, looking down at the shivering man, his gun still cocked and laying easily in his hand.

"My name's Stephen. Stephen Williams. I just came here because I was told to… to offer someone named Trowa Barton a job."

Emerald eyes narrowing, Trowa frowned. "What kind of job?"

"He… he told me not to disclose details in the open."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. He didn't give me his name."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't tell. He wore a face mask."

"And you trusted him enough to deliver his message?"

"He said he'd murder me if I didn't."

Trowa frowned. Putting his gun away, he sighed. "Stand up."

Stephen did as bade, rising to his feet and throwing his hands into the air, consenting without question or protest to being patted down.

Trowa led the man inside and closed the door.

Catherine arched a brow as the slim stranger was lead into the trailer, watching his every move as he made his way to the couch and sat down tiredly, his knees shaking as Trowa stalked silently around him. "What's the meaning of this, Trowa? Who is he?" the girl asked, pointing at the tee shirt and jean wearing man in her living room.

"A messenger, Cathy," Trowa replied, seating himself in the chair opposite of Stephen and crossing his legs. "A messenger who's going to tell me exactly why he's here."

"As I said," Stephen began, visibly calming ever since coming into the warmth of the trailer, "I was told to offer Trowa Barton a job. I take it that you are that man?"

Trowa nodded once, both to answer his question and to indicate that he should continue.

"He told me to have you meet him at the doughnut shop at the rest stop at Exit 171 so he could discuss the details with you."

"Do you have any information about this person? A description?" Catherine said, a frown turning her lipstick painted lips, her dark blue eyes narrowing.

"He wore a mask, so I couldn't see his face. And he was wearing all black. But he was a bit taller than him," he exclaimed, pointing to Trowa, "maybe putting him near six feet. And he had a long ponytail of dark hair. I couldn't tell the color – it's dark outside."

"His eyes?"

"Couldn't tell their color. Sorry."

Trowa simply nodded once before rising from his chair and walking to the hall closet.

"Trowa? What are you doing?"

Turning, Trowa lifted his gun from his waistband and quickly pulled the trigger. Catherine's scream echoed through the room, even as the explosion of the miniature Derringer's fire sounded.

As Stephen collapsed, the hole in the center of his forehead telling of the gun's fatal accuracy, Catherine turned tearing eyes to the boy she claimed as her brother. "Why!"

"Because he could be traced. He knew my identity, and he could be able to lead whoever's drawing me out to this trailer and you. I'll be back later; I've got to see what this is about."

Catherine stared, too stunned to move, as the turtleneck wearing youth pulled his denim jacket from the closet and shrugged it on, replacing his gun at his waistband before stepping out into the darkness of night once more to claim his motorcycle. The roar of the bike's engine sang in the night once again as he started the motor and soon faded as he urged the cycle out onto the road, driving towards the destination quoted to him.

The black Honda Civic followed him once more, its headlights off to hide its presence with the curtain provided by the dark atmosphere.

-- 12:33, 4 Days Ago --

Tanned fingers slowly lifted the queen from the chessboard.

'Still up to your old tricks, kid? What is it you're planning this time?'

Slowly sweeping the ivory piece across the board and setting it down upon a new square, the man frowned, scratching his chin before hiking up the sleeve of his gray blazer and scratching his arm. "How the hell he can stand these suits every day is another damned mystery."

Walking around the board, he glanced at the clock. 'Still around twenty minutes remaining before he and his secretary return from lunch. If I'm ever going to try to get into that system of his, now would be the time. Besides, he wouldn't be using this board. It's just a lobby toy to keep those awaiting their appointments entertained so they don't realize how many minutes are stretching by.' So, quickly adjusting the setup on the board, he nodded before pocketing the king and walking to the glass door that separated the executive office from the small lobby that rested outside of its expanse. Glancing at the secretary's desk and watching the multitude of blinking red lights dance about its panel, he smirked and shook his head. "And you're going to have a shit-load of calls waiting for you when you return from Lotus Garden, aren't you, Mr. Winner? Makes me wonder if you'll even notice my little adjustment to your lobby board before some bozo comes along, rearranges it, and whines to you about there being no onyx king."

Standing before the glass door, he slipped a leather glove over his hand and gave an experimental tug on the handle. Discovering that the office was predictably locked, the man nodded and knelt before it.

Soon a pair of paperclips were hard at work, trying desperately to unlatch the mechanics that held the door tightly closed.

After ten minutes had passed, the man shook his head as he rose to his feet. "Damn you. Electronic key as well as mechanical, isn't it? And a high quality one at that. Meaning I'll have to take a different route."

Sighing as he lifted his soda can from the book shelf and waved to the security camera within the false book he'd just uncovered, he walked to the elevator that would take him back down into the company building from the lofty suite that housed the office he'd been attempting to infiltrate.

As he walked out of the ground-floor lobby almost thirty minutes after leaving the office that occupied the top floor of the huge skyscraper, the man smiled slightly, listening to the conversation that rolled from the small ear-piece he had discretely sitting in his ear-cannel.

"Yes, Mr. Winner. An attempted security breech while you were at lunch. We can replay the tapes for you if you like, but the one that would have given us the best view of his activities was covered by a soda can at the time he was trying to break into your office," one voice, husky and deep, rumbled.

"Really. I see. Thank you, Mr. Shulman. You can give me those tapes in an hour, yes?" a second voice quickly said, its tenor light and almost uncaring as it sighed.

"As you wish, Mr. Winner," the first voice replied. With the sound of footprints walking away, the second voice sighed softly.

"I suspected as much. Interesting setup, too…"

'He found the board,' the man reflected, listening carefully to the sounds coming through his receiver.

"So that's what you're planning," the light voice muttered softly across the earpiece.

"What was that, Mr. Winner?" another voice piped in.

"Nothing, nothing. Just looking at something… seems a bit out of place, is all."

"I see. The chessboard?"

"Isn't at all like it was left. Meaning that… meaning that the person I suspected to be in my cabinet meeting was here. Also meaning this room is probably bugged as well. Carol, leave the office. I'm going to have security run a full sweep over this area. Do you have your computer backed up?"

"Yes," a female's voice growled irritably. "You mean they're going to blast this place, aren't they?"

"Yep. Disabling everything electrical. It's gonna be a fun week getting everything back into working order."

"Why do we have to take such drastic measures, Mr. Winner?" the female voice sighed.

"Because we don't know to what extent this place has been bugged," the male said, his voice still uncaring with its flippancy. "For example, if whoever it was who attempted to infiltrate my office had the time to install a microphone here in the underside of the phone, who knows how long he was here and how extensively he has this space wired."

The man quickly pulled the receiver from his ear, cringing as he heard the squeal and crunch of the microphone being destroyed, very likely by a dress shoe's heel grinding it to dust against the hard-wood floor, scream over the flimsy speaker. Slipping it back into his ear, he frowned as he listened to the now less audible conversation.

"That's one. Who knows how many could be here? Unless you want us to close down your station for a month while they sweep this place, we're just going to have to suffer the inconvenience. Gather your disks and get them downstairs. I'll set you up at a new terminal for the time being, and have the phone systems rerouted."

"That means we're going to lose everything that's on voicemail, aren't we, Mr. Winner?"

The male's voice laughed evilly. "Why yes, it does. Isn't that ever so convenient?"

"You're absolutely evil," the woman giggled.

"Thank you."

-- 22:52, Yesterday --

Trowa frowned as he pulled into the doughnut shop's empty parking lot. Turning off his bike, he threw the kickstand down and rocked back on it, slowly swinging off of the motorcycle's seat. Stuffing his hands into his jacket's pockets to warm them, he slowly approached the building, emerald eyes narrowed.

After circling the building and discerning that he was the only person there, he snorted softly. "I'm here as you asked, whoever you are. Why don't you show yourself?"

The black Honda Civic rolled into the lot, tinted windows revealing nothing as they reflected the light of the shop's sign and the street lamps.

Arching a brow, the youth walked to the car as it stopped and its engine turned off. Hands still stuffed in his pockets, his face a blank emotionless mask, he stood outside of the door, waiting for the vehicle's occupant to emerge from the dark interior of the car.

Instead the window rolled down and the bright dome-light of the vehicle was turned on.

Shielding his eyes with a thin hand, Trowa's lips formed the slightest bow of a frown. "You're the one who called me here."

The black figure silhouetted by the light's glare nodded once, before lifting a black hand to its black neck. "Yes," it said, its voice disguised by the voice box held to its throat, sounding like the emanations of an ancient science fiction movie's robot rather than a human vocalization.

"What do you want?"

"I have news concerning Mr. Quatre Raberba Winner."

That caught Trowa's attention. Hand still shielding his eyes, his lips formed a true scowl. "What sort of news?"

"He's in the utmost danger, Mr. Barton. His position in the newly arisen Earth Sphere United Nation has drawn him more enemies than he has imagined or counted on, and has placed him into harm's path."

"I don't see what this has to do with me," Trowa snorted. "He's got bodyguards."

"They are useless. Against the ones who plot against him now, they will provide no protection."

"Who are you?"

The disguised voice chuckled. "Someone who has no wish to be known. If you knew my identity, those enemies that both Winner and I claim would be able to find me through you. I'd rather that didn't happen."

"Sounds like a lame excuse."

"You're not buying this, are you?"

"No."

"Very well then. When Quatre Winner is dead, then you will know that my words are true."

"Even if your words are true, what could I possibly do?"

"Watch him from afar. Protect him from the distances his bodyguards do not cover. Figure out what he is planning and assist him as you can, as only you may."

"As said. Sounds lame."

"So be it. You shall see, Mr. Barton. You shall see how much danger he's in. I've already gotten a tip that he's going to be attacked in two days, when he's busy preparing for his business trip to check on the progress made in the mines at the system's ring."

"If you've such information, why don't you act on it?" Trowa huffed.

"You think I'm going to place myself in danger for Winner? You've got to be dreaming. I've got my own safety to be concerned about – his survival is important to the continued workings of the Nation, but it's second in my mind to my own survival. Such is why I wanted to recruit you, Mr. Barton; because you care, you would be willing to dedicate yourself to the task of watching him, of protecting him, no matter the danger. I don't give a rat's ass, to be frank. Also, I've made my interest in him too well known to Winner's assailants – that puts not only me in danger, but also heightens the danger presented to him. They've been adjusting their plans concerning him, knowing that he had me as a protector for awhile. That's why I need someone they don't know about, someone who can remain nothing but an enigma and remain unseen by even Winner himself, to protect him as I'm not willing to do, to protect him without letting them know that he's there so they don't readjust their plans concerning the kid and blow him away."

Trowa arched a brow, as the window rolled up and the car drove off.

"Nothing but a load of bullshit," Trowa snorted softly as he reclaimed his seat upon his motorcycle and took off back towards the trailer.

The occupant of the Honda Civic parked his car in the shadows off the freeway, watching the cycle proceed back towards the place the young boy called home.

"Heh. His curiosity should be getting the better of him soon enough."

"See you in two days at the L4 spaceport, kid."

-- 23:19 --

The black Honda silently sat, engine off, occupant lifting his binoculars to watch the trailer in the distance.

The man's wiry lips turned with a delighted sneer as he watched the lanky banged youth shove turtleneck after turtleneck into a beaten duffel bag.

"Gotcha."

And he watched, his fingers drumming on his dashboard in time with the hard-rock music that pumped through his car's speakers as the motorcycle tore down the road towards the spaceport.

-- 17:58 --

"No worries, Xavier. I'll have him. Especially with tomorrow's stunt. His position is going to be fucking guaranteed; there's gonna be nothing that'll be able to turn the little lusty boy away from his bed-mate interest."

"You're actually going to go through with it, then? The attempt on Quatre Winner's shuttle?"

"I don't have to, Xavier. I wasn't lying when I told you that such was already in the works. I have nothing to do with it."

"Who, then?"

"Not for me to say. Just convenient timing, is all. I stumbled upon that little bit of info just in the nick of time."

"You're not going to tell me shit, are you?"

"Of course not."

"Not even why you're REALLY going to be utilizing that kid instead of taking care of things yourself?"

"Told you. Bullet sponge."

"So, he's nothing but a bullet sponge. That's a rather harsh way to treat someone who you spoke with such reverence about, James."

Laughing lightly, the hazel-eyed man winked. "Shit, you know I'm foolin' with you."

"About using him as a bullet sponge? Or using him period?"

"Bullet sponge, Xavier. I'm using him to get closer to Quatre than I can. You know that kid's always held me under a fucking microscope. I can't let him know that I'm involved, or else…."

"Or else he'll gain your allegiance like he did last time? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"You know he had my allegiance to begin with, namely because he worked for the same guy who bought me. Don't try to pull the 'I'm bitter because you betrayed me' bullshit act."

Xavier snorted quietly. "You DID betray us all."

"Shit, just remaining loyal to the people that had me first. But now that he's dead, it's like 'What the hell, let's see who's gonna buy me off this time,' you know? And unless he gives me an offer that stands far superior to yours, you won't have anything to worry about."

"Only thing is, what do you consider to be a greater offer, James?"

Winking, the man called 'James' sniggered. "Now if I told you that, it'd take all the fun out of life, now, wouldn't it?"

_tbc..._


	3. Chapter III

Once again, notes about vehicles and guns that may not be commonplace knowledge will be at the end of the fic.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_I'm never coming back  
__I'm never giving in  
__I'll never be the shine in your spit  
__I disconnect the act  
__I disconnect the dots  
__I disconnect the me in me_

_Fuck You (An Ode To No One) _

-- 11:24 --

The wind whipped violently around the man dressed completely in black as he sat astride his Harley Davidson VRSCA V-Rod (1), binoculars lifted to his face, eyes squinted as they peered through the devices to watch the activity that was proceeding to unfold in the basin of the small valley he sat beside.

It was a bright, windy day on the colonies located in the cluster at the LaGrange Point 4, as determined by the program that selected the weather specifications. The artificial light that mimicked the sun so very well shone upon the gleaming golden sands that made up the cluster environment, even as the volatile gusts of wind stirred those sands. Seated in the protection of permanent valleys crafted of metal and imported stone, shielded from the violent winds and scorching sands, business continued as planned in the major cities upon the colony, completely unaffected by the colony's turbulent weather pattern. And with the natives of the colony used to the peculiarities of the colony's weather and underground tunnels being available to those who were unused to traversing through a sandstorm in the midst of a desert, it would have no affect on the citizens of the colony, either.

No, the only one it was affecting was the man who dared to stand unsheltered upon the cliff-top overlooking the small man-made basin that held the L4 spaceport, holding binoculars to his face and balancing precariously on his bike, noting the fact that the kickstands of his vehicle were sinking into the sand that made up the ground it sat upon.

'Come on, kid. Get here already. Let's get this plan going.'

As the long black limousine rolled towards the space port, finally having emerged from the hidden shaft-like tunnel that burrowed through the very rock and steel the colony was crafted of that connected the sprawling expanses of the Down Town region to the spaceport, the man lowered his binoculars. 'Finally. Time to roll.'

Turning the key of his bike, he turned the throttle a few times, listening to it growl viciously, the noise of its powerful engine rocketing above the ferocity of the storm with ease. Kicking the stand that held it upright back and seating himself comfortably upon the seat, he gripped both handles of the cycle and placed his foot upon the clutch. And, giving it another gunning burst of gas with a wrench of the throttle, he let the engine engage and roared across the top of the cliff towards the road he'd previously taken to reach his precarious perch.

Leaning over his Harley to minimize the amount of drag his body created with the winds ripping at him, he tore rapidly towards the shelter of the basin below, barely feeling the wind at his face and the sun on his black leather-clad back.

Instead of focusing on the weather around him, he focused instead on what was destined to occur, what he knew was about to happen, and what he was hoping would arise in response to the situation he had knowledge of.

Pulling onto the road as it dipped into the valley and into the sudden chill of shade, the man let off the throttle a bit, sitting more upright to watch the spaceport grow in his visor's span as he approached. It sprawled already across the entire plane of his vision, tall control towers reaching above where his vision was allowed to peer and crawling two story terminal buildings flung to the sides of those towers. The long monorail trams that connected those terminals were humming as they ran rapidly from one building to the next, taking their passengers with swift efficiency to their destinations before picking up their next load of people and spiriting them away to yet another building.

Slowly driving towards the parking lot beyond the loading area, the man set his gaze upon the black limousine that he'd observed pulling out of the Down Town tunnel and which was still being unloaded of its luggage. Shaking his head, he stared for a few more moments. 'Trust that kid to turn a classic Bentley Arnage (2) into a limo. Such an obvious flaunting of wealth. Still, it is tasteful to say the least. At least he didn't do that shit to a Sports Utility Vehicle. That'd be tacky.'

With a turn of the throttle, he eased the bike towards the parking lot and brought it to a halt before the ticket dispenser. Watching the machine as it ticked off the time, he drummed his fingers impatiently on his handle grips, waiting as it printed his ticket. "Thanks," he growled at the mechanism as it finally produced the paper strip he'd been waiting for, snatching it roughly from the slot through which it had emerged and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Gripping the bars again, he slowly started rolling once more, lifting his feet onto their bars and making his way towards the nearly full motorcycle parking area.

After securing the bike, he strode confidently into the spaceport, briefcase in one gloved hand and the other twirling his bike's keys. Their jangling was lost in the soft murmur of constant racket that filled the terminal he'd entered. The ringing of cell phones blended with the chatter of people conversing in the hallways and carrying on their private conversations on the multitudes of public pay phones and cell phones throughout the area. Dress shoes clicked and sneakers squeaked on the highly polished tile floors, luggage dropped to the ground and rolled noisily along, children squealed and sobbed, people discussed business and family.

Making his way easily through the large gathering in the terminal lobby, he strode swiftly towards the monitors upon which were displayed the flight times and estimated times of arrival for the flights that would be coming in and leaving from that particular terminal's ports. 'Well, everything's running on time so far. And Gate Nine's closed and rerouted, meaning that the kid's private shuttle's probably already there.' A quick nod later, he walked away from the display monitor and crossed quickly to the metal detectors. Wallet and pocket knife landed in the small bin awaiting them even as he produced the paperwork he knew would be necessary for the briefcase that laid upon the conveyor belt and was being dragged under the watchful electric eye of the x-raying computer system.

Picking up his briefcase after a quick jaunt with the guards around him about the gun show he was eager to get to, he strode towards the window and leaned against it, jacket-clad shoulder pressed to the glass and eyes half-closed to spare them from the bright, invasive light of the computer-generated sun that poured through the tall terminal windows.

He sighed, watching the large silvery shuttle roll towards the loading dock, being ushered into place by multitudes of men in bulky, warm flight suits and helmets with added ear protection waving lighted guiding sticks in their hands, the orange of those florescent hand-held lights shining more brightly than anything in the area that surrounded them. Huge black tires rolled over the smooth, hot black asphalt, rolling effortlessly over the stray patches of sand and scattered rocks that littered the ground. Silver wings folded in towards the shuttle's sides, reducing its overall girth to allow it to fit more easily in to the area allocated for it. Engines rumbling quietly as they were powered down and the plane-like shuttle rolled to a halt, the shuttle stopped and its doors swung open, making way for the extending rolling walkway that awaited its readiness to connect to be extended to the vessel. Trucks rolled immediately towards the shuttle, some with large pressurized tanks of water meant to wash the glistening silver shuttle bearing upon its tail fin the spectacularly detailed gold-emblazoned globe superimposed with the script 'W' and surrounded by orbiting colony clusters that was the company logo for the Winner family company, some carrying luggage, some bearing the food and finery that was to be served to the shuttle's passengers on their trip to the Earth.

'Any one of those could be… wait a minute. Is that…?'

The man in black chuckled softly, shaking his head. 'Amazing that kid can infiltrate anywhere. Can tell who it is thanks to that fucked up hair any damned day.'

A smirk across his face, he calmly watched as Trowa Barton walked amongst the spaceport employees who were quickly servicing the shuttle, preparing it for the flight it was destined to make in one hour after its safety inspection.

'Well, he'll be able to take care of any threat that may be presented by whoever is down there to rig that shuttle. It won't be going down.'

Laying one hand upon the glass, he squinted and surveyed the surrounding area.

'All that remains is takin' care of anyone who may be prepared for me to fuck with the shuttle setup. They should be expecting me to be the only one involved – two people are an unexpected factor that'll turn on them.'

Stepping away from the window, the man stretched, groaning in content satisfaction as his back popped loudly. Leaning over and picking up his briefcase, he glanced back out at the shuttle.

'Yeah, the kid's got to die, according to my employer. But now, my friends, isn't the right time. Why can't you realize that assassinating the little twit now is going to do nothing but ruin your happy little plans for the future? All you'll do is draw the wrath of the Nation; gotta sully his reputation first, or set it up right so the blame can't possibly be placed on another party. Common fucking sense. If it's too obvious, you'll do nothing but chop off your own damned cock and screw yourself up the ass with the rest of the world.'

Walking calmly away from the window and passing the rows of molded plastic chairs which were slowly filling with passengers awaiting the arrival and boarding calls for the shuttles that were to be arriving at gates five through ten, he shook his head.

'Meaning that for now I've got to stop you.'

Tightening his grip on his suitcase, he sighed quietly and walked towards the restrooms.

'At least this isn't you, Xavier. I won't be losing anyone who's of any worth or importance to me.'

As he ducked into the hallway that lead to the restrooms, walking calmly down the nearly abandoned passageway lit by its flickering florescent lights, he stepped quickly into the men's restroom. Looking around, he sighed quietly. "What a fucking trash pit. I really ought to talk to management about this." Staring in disgust, he placed his hands on his hips and snorted.

"If they expect me to go in a urinal in this condition, they're smoking something strong and not fucking sharing."

-- 13:48, 6 Days Ago --

The phone receiver rang loudly from its place on the floor below the cluttered coffee table, as did its base from its corner of the kitchen counter.

"Damn it, have some fucking patience," the lump on the couch growled as he shifted underneath his warm brown blanket. One hand snaked out of the small cocoon of warmth, feeling around on the floor in a vain effort to find the missing receiver, missing it completely on every desperate grab it made.

Finally, long tanned fingers curled around the receiver and lifted it towards the blankets, sliding under the soft covering and dragging the phone with it as it vanished under the warmth-providing fabric. The beep of the 'Talk' button being pushed, muffled by the thick blanket, sounded and was followed a few elongated moments later by a yawn and a slurred greeting that was nothing more than the last syllable of the word 'Hello.'

The blanket was tossed to the floor a few moments later as the person who'd been laying below it in its soft warmth abruptly sat upright, hazel eyes wide and long unbound brown hair in utter disarray, receiver pressed to his ear and mouth open. "Xavier, you shit! Wha…" he exclaimed, lifting his other hand to throw his hair out of his face, blinking rapidly. "Yo, shut up," he snarled a few moments later, following his command with a simple question – "How the hell are you still alive?"

The television was soon shut off and the man left the comfort of his couch to stalk over to the refrigerator, phone receiver still held to his ear as he listened intently to the murmuring on the other end of the line. "If you give me a few fucking minutes, I'll get to the vid phone. I'm going to get a beer before I bother. Fuck, salmon cakes, salad, leftovers, more leftovers, milk, sausage… damn it, where the hell'd she put the carto… here."

Crossing the room once more, he sat down heavily at the kitchen counter upon one of the stools that sat before it and dragged the phone's base towards him, staring at the monitor upon it as he pressed the green power button that blinked brightly in its lower right hand corner. As the monitor flickered to life, he tossed the receiver onto the base and let a vicious, twisted smirk take his lips. "So, you shit, what has you calling me at this time of day?" he asked as he twisted the cap of his Bud Light off the bottle and tossed it towards the trash can, sinking the metal cap into the yawning orifice with deadly accuracy.

The caller smiled his most friendly grin, brown eyes open and bright as he ran a hand quickly through his shortly cropped and spiked brown hair. "Nothing much, old buddy. Just have a proposition for you. A bit of a job, you might say."

"Proposition, eh? Sorry, Xavier, but I retired awhile ago. You know that. Otherwise I'd still be working for Kesslinger, running around in the colonies instead of here in Butt-fuck Alaska freezing my ass off."

Nodding, Xavier lifted his own drink to his lips and took a sip. "I thought as much. Otherwise it would have been easier to track you down. It took me half a year to locate you, you know."

"Glad to hear I was that well hidden. Wasn't even trying. You must be losing your touch, man… I'm in the fucking phone book."

"Heh. I should have thought of that," Xavier chuckled, shaking his head. "But anyway, are you certain you won't even hear my proposition out?"

"Pretty fucking certain. My girl won't be happy if I left."

"Your girl…? Since when did you have… I can't see how….."

Rolling his hazel eyes, the man took a long swig off his bottle and grunted. "Not daughter, you shit. My girl. The one I'm living with."

"Oh, gotcha. When do I get to meet this one?"

"Never, prick."

Xavier smirked. "And why not?"

"Because. She doesn't need to be associated with ass-wipes like you. Plus I know what happens when you drop by for unexpected visits. You're almost as bad as I am."

Shaking his head, Xavier laughed. "Not even, old buddy. I couldn't come close to you when it comes to murder."

Smirking at his friend, the man chuckled softly, menace lingering in his voice. "Don't even fucking lie. I know what you're like."

"Well, if you know me so very well, then you'd think again about listening to my little proposition, my friend. After all, I know where you are. Otherwise I'd never have been able to call you, especially considering that I didn't use the phone book to track your ass down."

Smile vanishing, he leaned forward, his hazel eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't fucking dare."

"Try me."

"Fucker!"

Xavier smirked, lifting his drink and sipping from it once more. "You know how it is, my old friend. The purpose, the plan, the job is everything. Ruthless behavior is necessary to bring the plan into being and to successfully see its end. And if ruthless behavior is needed to bring a means to an end, then it must be used. After all," he started, taking another sip before continuing, "you can't be there twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to protect that which is precious to you. And you can't be on the ball and aware of everything that's surrounding you at all times, either."

"Now you're stooping to threats."

"Because you're necessary, and threats are all that move you at times. Right now seems to be one of those times when you won't respond to anything other than threats, which you know are in no way idle. You don't move, I will. And as you know, I'm as dedicated to the completion of whatever job I'm assigned to as you are to your almighty plan."

"Shit," the man snorted, leaning back, glaring at the monitor coldly as he relied on the backrest of the stool to hold him upright, "how am I to know that you'll even do anything? You're a chicken-livered shit-brain after all. Never been capable of much."

Chuckling quietly, his smirk turning more menacing than before, Xavier leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table upon which the videophone he was using sat. "But I am capable of murdering your little girl. Maybe not you, but your girl would be easy prey. And I'm willing to do such, if you don't listen to my proposition – and agree to assist me. The person I'm working for could very well bring about the future we've desired for so long; the very future that was stolen from us could be achieved by following this new path. I want to see it happen. I want it more than anything. I want the happiness that was stolen from me, the life that was taken from me, returned. And I'll do anything to retrieve it."

"Even if it means selling yourself out, Xavier?"

"Never stopped either of us before. First Kesslinger, now my newest employers for me. For you, I'll be damned if I can even start to count."

"But why me?"

"Because you're the only one I can trust to pull it off."

"You expect me to work with you after you've threatened her? And you're expecting me to fucking abandon the life I've finally found to follow you and your ridiculous plots into whatever future it'll craft, one that's likely to destroy the one I've already made?"

"You have before, my friend. Family, obligations, jobs and normal lives have never appealed to you for as long as I've known you. After all, weren't you the one who shrugged off the fact that I killed your last precious little interest? And why did you shrug it off? Why'd you make up the excuse that you were better off without her leeching off of you and holding you to the stagnation of an ordinary family-man life? Because you know that the future we both seek would be ideal for both of us, giving us everything we could ever desire with our filthy, greedy minds and hearts. Because you know that I'll not let you go without reward if you cooperate with me, nor will I let you go unpunished if your refuse me."

The man snarled softly, "You lousy bastard…."

"Just tell me one thing, my friend," Xavier said, his smile falling away.

"What?"

"You have what you lost before. You've returned to being an ordinary, every day guy. You have your girl, your home, your financial stability…"

"Yeah?"

Xavier frowned. "But are you really happy?"

Time seemed to stand still as the two men stared at one another, hazel eyes glazed, brown eyes narrowed.

"I…."

"Meet with me at the Anchorage Airport. I think what we have to offer could result not only in the continuation of the life you're living without my interference, but also in your plans coming to fruition – in your happiness."

"I…."

"No obligations. Just meet me and consider it. And if you meet up with me, I'll leave her be. Deal?"

"…. Fine."

Reaching forward with a trembling finger, the man pushed the power button in the corner of the video monitor, turning the unit off and thus ending the phone conversation. Rising from his seat upon his stool, he walked back to the couch and flopped down upon it. Lifting his beer to his lips, he sighed softly and frowned as he stared at the blackened television.

Nearly an hour later, he rose from his seat and walked upstairs. "Honey," he called softly to the person huddled over the desk, staring intently at opened books and a thick stack of notebook papers, "have you seen my suitcase?"

Lifting her gaze from the books laid before her, the young woman frowned. "Why? Planning on going somewhere?"

A soft smile taking his lips, he sighed and walked over to her, laying a hand upon her cheek. "Just for a couple of weeks. I've got to meet up with an old friend of mine. Some sort of emergency. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can, alright?"

She stared at him. "Call me."

Nodding, he bent at the waist and wrapped his arms around her frame, holding her in a tender embrace. "Of course."

"Your suitcase should be in the closet, my dear."

Taking her lips in a warm kiss, he sighed softly before pulling away. "Thank you."

A bright smile took the young woman's lips as she turned to face her schoolbooks, her face flooded with determination as she gripped her pen and bravely flipped the page.

Setting his suitcase upon the bed and flipping it open, the man turned his gaze to her, watching as she stooped back over her books, her delicate fingers finding their way into her bangs as she growled in frustration.

'I'm sorry for leaving like this, my sweet girl. But I'll not risk your life by denying his will.'

'I can't lose you now that I've finally found you.'

"Get me something from wherever you end up, will you?" she called, glancing over her shoulder.

"You've got it, sweet-cakes."

He sighed once more as he began to stack jeans into his case, discretely burying assorted guns and ammunition in with his clothing to hide them from prying eyes, using his body as a barricade to prevent her to see what he was packing away.

'I hate leaving you, but I've got not choice. I won't let him hurt you.'

'I love you.'

-- 12:40 --

Leaning over the railing that skirted along the edge of the roof, hazel eyes narrowed to block the majority of the light that reflected off the audaciously bright silver shuttle, the man sighed softly as he tucked the janitor's keys into his pockets.

'Hopefully they won't find his body until I'm out of here,' he thought with a grimace even as he opened his briefcase and lifted the contents of his luggage free from its confines.

Rotating the barrel forward and down, he nodded as it clicked solidly into place and swiftly keyed it locked into its open position. And flipping the safety off, he lifted the Kel-Tec Sub Rifle 2000 (3) to his shoulder and peered through the sites.

He watched as Trowa discretely slid from the wheel well of the shuttle, a small package under his left arm, and slunk away towards the nearest dumpster.

'Good work, kid,' he silently praised, watching as the boy with the wild bangs sneaked into the building, unseen by the people who milled about the scene.

Hazel eyes squinted as the blonde boy emerged from the terminal on the moving walkway, talking easily and merrily with the swarm of business-suit wearing associates he was travelling with. Followed by constituents and bodyguards, the adolescent businessman made his way towards the shuttle.

The dumpster Trowa had deposited his package in suddenly exploded.

Screaming and yelling rang from the terminal grounds as people fled the area, high-heels and loafers pounding the tile floors below even as the burly bodyguards that accompanied those businessmen who were heading towards the ostentatious shuttle attempted to hurry their wards into the vessel.

The man in black stared down the sites of his rifle, watching as a similarly clad man on the roof of the building beside him did the same from the corner of his eye.

Turning on his heel, his finger pulled sharply on the trigger of his gun. He closed his eyes as it recoiled, his movement having set it away from its comfortable station in the cushioned flesh of the joint between arm and body and instead placing it to ram its hard butt across his collarbone and slam into his cheek. Quickly opening his eyes, he glowered down the gun's sites as he repositioned the weapon.

His target slowly knelt, weapon dropping to its feet and hands clutching its right breast.

'Sorry 'bout this, but you're moving too early. I can't let you finish the job just yet – not with everything at stake as it is.'

His next shot blew the back of his target's skull out.

As the body on the roof across from him collapsed in a bloody heap, he calmly folded his gun, swinging the barrel upwards and back to pack it back into his briefcase. Clicking the snaps of the carrying case shut, he lifted it and walked towards the trap door that lead to the janitorial service ladder that would take him into the gear locker next to the men's restroom.

'You owe me, kid. You've got at least another day of life.'

'Now, to get that Barton kid down to Earth. Ought to be fun.'

Wiping his smirk off his lips, the man hurriedly sprinted out of the hallway, a false look of panic instantly upon his face as he joined the screaming crowd that fled the terminal.

-- 20:48 --

Calmly sipping a beer, he leaned back in his chair, hazel eyes slowly letting their focus on the television screen drop away. 'He'll be here any damned minute. All he has to do is trace the car license plates and find out it was rented from the spaceport, then find out the supposed identity of the man who used it, reroute his search for the most current purchase that individual has made by utilizing his National registration number, and that'll lead him right to this hotel room. Not very fucking hard at all. And I know that kid has the brains to try it.'

Sighing, he changed the channel. 'After all, isn't that what anyone would do? Doesn't take a damned genius to figure out how to track someone down. Especially not with the resources I know he's got access to.'

Glancing out the window, he sighed softly. 'Going to be a pity leaving that car, but the bike'll be worth more to me on Earth. Cheaper to ship, too… can't spend too awfully much, or I'll wipe out our account.'

'Wonder how she's doing.'

His eyes found the phone. As his fingers slowly began to wind themselves around the receiver and lift it from its base, he frowned as the roar of a Honda motorcycle's engine rang from the parking lot outside of his hotel room.

Forcing his fingers to unwind, he glanced back at the window and watched as the lank youth in his turtleneck pulled his black helmet off his head and pulled leather gloves from his hands. Lifting his thin-fingered hands, he swept them through his hair, dragging them amongst sweat-dampened strands which were wet enough to lose most of their perky spring. Dismounting the bike, the new arrival stalked towards the hotel office.

Shaking his head, the man rose from his chair and threw open the door. Walking back to the chair and flopping lazily down into the cushions once more, he grunted and changed the channel once more. 'It's about damned time, kid.'

His eyes closed as he heard Trowa's surprised gasp and the click of his boots stopping just outside of his door. "You… you're…" the teenager's voice cracked, the hint of shock lacing every breath that emerged from his frame.

"Nice to see you too."

"How're you still alive?" the emerald-eyed boy said with the slightest of frowns appearing on his lips, before he followed his question with yet another; "And what are you planning?"

"Questions for another time. But maybe I can clarify a few things for you."

Trowa nodded once.

Glancing over, hazel eyes dull, a strained smile met the man's lips. "How do you feel about the deserts of California, boy?"

-- 13:47 --

The man grumbled quietly as he made his way back to his Harley Davidson. "Fucking hot out here," he observed, tugging his jacket and sighing. "Too fucking hot to be running around like a crazed idiot just because some fucking dumpster blew up and a moron got his head blown off."

Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he walked calmly to his bike.

His hazel eyes widened considerably.

The note, taped to his windshield, merrily scribed in sharp, elegant scripted handwriting, refused to change its message no matter how much he longed it to.

"Thanks for the save," he quietly read, shaking his head, "I'll be seeing you in California."

"What the fuck…?"

Scratching his chin, the man snarled softly. 'How did he know? How the hell is that possible!'

Ripping the note off his motorcycle's windshield, he stuffed it into his back jean pocket and mounted the bike. Starting it quickly and giving the throttle an angry turn, mouth grimacing even as the bike roared fiercely, he tore out of the parking lot.

'He knows I'm here. He knows I'm involved.'

'And he's playing right along.'

'How is he already ahead of me! How?'

_tbc…_

1) See this beauty. Drool over her. It's alright. I know I drooled. slurp Stare at the photo gallery and appreciate her beauty even more. She's at: http/ www . harleydavidson . com remove the spaces - and yes, I'll get a more precise link up soon

2) Imagine it as a limo. http/ www .bentlymotors . com remove the spaces - and yes, I'll get a better link up soon

3) Kel-Tec Sub Rifle 2000: Caliber: 9mm, 40 S Capacity: Various double columns; Action: Semi-automatic; Barrel: 16.1"; Weight: 4 pounds (unloaded); Length: 30" (open); 16" (closed); Stock: Tubular steel stock with polymer butt stock; Finish: Hard anodized black (aluminum parts) and blue (steel parts); Price: POR (price on request in other words, EXPENSIVE); Misc: By rotating the barrel upwards and back, the SUB-2000 can be reduced to a size of 16"x7" for secure storage. Also features an internal keyed deployment lock.


	4. Chapter IV

A/N 1: A few tie-ins that occur far outside the timeline span of this particular series can be traced back to the story 'Once' or the actual series in case you're curious.

A/N 2: 180 days is approximately 6 months, 90 days is about 3 months, and so on and so forth. Seems like a short span, doesn't it? Just mentioning that for those of us who're too lazy or brain dead or whatnot to bother thinking about the validity of my numbers. No intention to insult the intelligence, just realizing that not many people may want to figure that out on their own. :) Also it helps put the timeline in retrospect. So there. :P

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_time is never time at all  
__you can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth_

_Tonight, Tonight_

-- 11:23 --

Walking into the dark hotel room, the tall lank man grunted as he tripped over the clothing scattered haphazardly across the floor. Staggering a few steps to catch his balance, he managed by miraculous measures to keep the grocery sacks he held in his arms from spilling as he made his way towards the small kitchenette the hotel room sported. Pulling the fridge door open with the toe of a black steel-toed construction boot, he leaned over, basking in the cool chill air that flowed from the white recesses of the small cube-shaped refrigeration unit for a few moments before shelving the items he held within his worn paper Stater Bros. Bags – a six pack of Budweiser, a twin pack of baloney, a bag of bagels, a small bin of margarine, a package of processed cheese, a carton of eggs. Into the cabinet above the microwave-fridge combo the kitchenette held he slipped a stack of paper plates, a microwave egg-poacher, a bag of Chips Ahoy! cookies and plastic eating utensils, along with small disposable salt and pepper dispensers.

Steam spilled from the bathroom as the white-painted door was quietly opened and a water-dripping head was thrust through the opening. Wet dark-brown bangs which effectively plastered themselves to half of Trowa's face were soon scooped into the confines of the white hotel-issue towel he held in his slim fingers to be briskly rubbed in a vain attempt to be dried as the emerald-eyed boy watched his room companion stock their small living space. "Considering staying here for awhile?" he asked as he quickly wrapped the towel on top of his head to hold his hair away from his neck and face, leaving his body to be free for drying without trickles of water pouring down his back from the thick mop he sported.

"So are you," his companion quickly grunted as he stooped to shove a bag of baby-cut carrots into the crisper drawer at the bottom of the micro-fridge.

"Oh really? I thought I'd be off to track down Mr. Winner as of tonight."

"Wrong, bucko. Mr. Winner won't be arriving on Earth for another three days. He's got further business out in the colonies. I've got other plans for you."

One brow arching over an unconcerned green eye, Trowa frowned. "I take it you'll be spending these three days telling me what's going on."

"More or less, I suppose. Won't have much of your cooperation if you don't know anything."

"You've already told me that Quatre's at risk. And you've proven it with your little stunt. My biggest concern is whether he's at risk because of the threat you've claimed you've been tracking, or because of the threat you could very well be responsible for presenting to him."

A sharp bark of laughter escaped the older man as he straightened his stance, tossing his head back and lifting his arms above his head. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he swung his arms behind his body, rotating his shoulders and groaning as his back audibly cracked. "Jumping the gun a bit there, kid. Already placing blame, when you have no evidence to convict the one you're holding the rod of justice towards. A bit uncalled for, don't you think?"

"You can understand why I'm concerned."

"Of course I understand why you're concerned. If I were in your position, I'd hardly trust me either. But then again, you don't have any reason not to trust me."

"And every reason not to."

"Of course."

Ducking back into the bathroom, Trowa continued drying himself even as he continued his conversation, raising his voice to decibels great enough to be heard by the man rummaging through spilt luggage in the small sleeping and living space the hotel room provided. "And, Mr. Waverly, I do expect you to tell me how it is that you're still alive. And why you're still involved with Quatre Raberba Winner."

-- 21:57, 82 Days Ago --

Sighing softly, the lithe man closed his eyes to block the vision presented to him by the flood of blue monitors that rested before him. 'So it's all coming to an end. All our hopes, all our dreams….'

'With Duke Dermail's ultimate mistake of handing the future of our combined worlds, colonies and Earth, into the hands of those who oppose our carefully crafted plans and life-long formed ideals along with Colonel Tsuburov's overly enthusiastic and entirely too premature embrace of the mobile doll system, it now is going terribly wrong. What I've dedicated my life to, what I've tossed my very humanity and youthful hopes away for, is failing because of the ambitions of those within our organization who have not the foresight nor the patience to simply see what's already resting beneath their noses and wait for it to develop and evolve.'

'I'm sorry, Douglas. You left the evolution and progression of your plans in my hands, thinking me capable. It has become evident that I've failed. I couldn't stop this from happening. I didn't read the actions of our own organization correctly.'

'I allowed myself to be distracted by the activities of those who retaliated against everyone. By those young pilots. And my hopes that they would be the key to unlocking our future have proven fruitless.'

'Oh well. At least I can help prevent this travesty from getting any worse than it's already become. Just need a little outside help….'

Turning away from the screens, he walked calmly towards the doors that occupied the rear of the large control room he was in, passing with casual ease amongst the scurrying, busied soldiers that inhabited the cramped spaces of the station with him. And, in passing, he nodded quickly to the soldier known simply as Sedici.

Brushing past the strong-jawed man, James nodded once. "Now's the time. Let's try to stop the flood from flowing where it's not wanted."

"Think we can?" the other man softly whispered.

"No. But we can slow it before the damage to our plan is too great to recover from."

"Got'cha."

A quick wink of a hazel eye and a muttering of "Glory to you, White Fang. Hopefully Tsuburov will cooperate," ended their conversation as James hurriedly left the room.

Walking down the passageways that would inevitably lead him to the grandiose shuttle bays housed in the still-under-construction super structure known as Space Fortress Libra, the man let his shoulders slump and his footfalls slow with the heavy weight that burdened him with his journey down the familiar terrain of the site he'd been haunting for the last two months, hunting and spying about for any information that would lead him to the determination of the plots of those who were responsible for the construction of the metallic monster which would soon be free to terrorize the depths of space. Slinking slowly around a corner, he lifted a hand to his head, rubbing his temple. 'Damn them for not waiting. All we're doing now is birthing chaos in a world that needs stability. We're creating rifts where we've already built foundations. All because they can't see the folly of what they're doing.'

'Maybe if we were the ones running this poorly organized show, things would have resulted differently.'

'Maybe if the operations from three months ago had worked as planned, without their interference and without the mistakes that were made….'

'Hell, doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, what's passed has passed. And it can't be undone, no matter how much I wish for it to be so.'

'Meaning I'm back to being on the losing side.'

Straightening his posture slightly, he walked a bit more briskly to the door that would lead him to the main shuttle bay compartment, to the shuttle he'd ordered to be standing by for him during this hour to the Lunar Base.

'If nothing else, I'll just switch again. After all, I've yet to complete my assignment for that crazy old man; he's very likely waiting for his results.'

'Once I get this ball rolling, I'll have to see what kind of disruptions I can stir up in the Romefeller organization for him.'

Closing his eyes as he passed a sentry standing his post outside of the shuttle he intended to board, he flashed his identification badge with a quick, carefree flick of his wrist. The young man perused the offered plastic card and nodded to indicate that he had permission to enter the craft. Stepping forward, James calmly walked onto the shuttle and took a seat. Brushing his long unbound brown hair behind his shoulders as he adjusted his position in his chair to make himself comfortable for the long trip awaiting him, he sighed to himself.

'So it's time to go back a few steps.'

'Maybe once I back up on the board, I'll be able to progress.'

'Not like there's any set schedule or anything; our plans will wait for us, laying dormant and silent as the horror started by the Romefeller Foundation rolls towards its close and returning to its unseen evolution once this melodrama has ended. They've waited through the flaws of the past, through the mistakes we've made before. This is just another temporary setback in our quest to see this ideal formed.'

'Time doesn't matter.'

'Time, after all, was never the issue. Because time is never time at all.'

-- 21:05, Yesterday --

Walking back to the chair and flopping lazily down into the cushions once more, he grunted and changed the channel once more. 'It's about damned time, kid.'

His eyes closed as he heard Trowa's surprised gasp and the click of his boots stopping just outside of his door. "You… you're…" the teenager's voice cracked, the hint of shock lacing every breath that emerged from his frame.

"Nice to see you too."

"How're you still alive?" the emerald-eyed boy said with the slightest of frowns appearing on his lips, before he followed his question with yet another; "And what are you planning?"

"Questions for another time. But maybe I can clarify a few things for you."

Trowa nodded once.

Glancing over, hazel eyes dull, a strained smile met the man's lips. "How do you feel about the deserts of California, boy?"

Sweatshirt-clad arms instinctually found their way to their most comfortable and familiar position of being crossed before Trowa's chest as the young man's eyes narrowed and the frown upon his lips deepened, becoming less enigmatic as each moment passed. "Why do you ask?" he cautiously stated, his gaze piercing through the man before him.

"Simple, kid. The person who can explain everything to you is there. That is, the guy who's in charge of this little operation."

"Are you meaning to tell me that you don't know all of the details of what you're planning?"

Nodding slowly, James narrowed his hazel eyes to match Trowa's gaze without a flinch or flicker of worry at the harsh undertones laying in that emerald glower. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. I don't know all the details. Therefore, I can't tell you everything you most likely want to know."

"You're lying."

Arching a brow, the older man let a snide sneer find his lips, working its way to his face slowly but steadily. "Maybe I am."

"You are."

"But then, I could also be telling you the truth. Just because I know much of what's going on with every party that I'm involved with doesn't mean that I have been allowed to peruse the entire picture. There are still many pieces of the puzzle missing."

Trowa simply stared incredulously at him.

His sneer fading into a smile, James chuckled under his breath. "Not much one for game metaphors, I take it."

"Chess and jigsaw puzzles don't appeal to me."

"I see. Amazing you could put up with Mr. Winner, seeing as how he relates everything to that which doesn't make its acquaintance with you."

Silence met James in response.

With a huffed sigh, the longhaired man rose from his seat and crossed the room with six swift steps. Stooping over, he tossed the top of a suitcase closed and zipped the zipper shut. And with a grunt he hoisted the bag and turned to Trowa. "As said, kid, there's a guy in California who can explain everything to you, should you be willing to take the trip. It's all paid for, if you are."

"And if I refuse?"

A shrug of his shoulders and a yawned, "Then I suppose Mr. Winner's going to get himself killed shortly," was enough to put the younger man stiff with rage, hands clenched at his sides. "So," James continued as he arched a brow, his face neutral without care or bitterness, "are you willing to come along? Or are you going to leave him in the hands of those who are after his life?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"I'd say not."

"How soon?" Trowa questioned.

"Got your stuff?"

"I suppose-"

"You can call the cute girl you live with from the terminal. Our flight for Los Angeles leaves in half an hour. Get onto the Harley. We'll get your Honda towed back to that circus you work with."

Brushing past Trowa, noting the incredible tension that raced through the young man's body, James sighed. "Move it, kid. We don't have forever."

"Right."

-- 19:58 --

The thick dirt crunched under the boots of the two men as they slowly walked towards the lonely little remains of a wooden house that appeared to be the only structure that existed to the span of the dusty plains ahead, barely visible against the blackening curtain of the steadily approaching evening sky. Having left the motorcycle at the rest stop that laid nearly a mile behind them, they braved the cold of the darkening desert night and the wind that gusted over the unforgiving landscape. As far as Trowa could determine, they were striking for the abandoned shack before them that seemed completely devoid of life. Turning a questioning glance to his companion, he stared.

James walked calmly at Trowa's side, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed to expose less of his body to the incredible chill of the air that surrounded them both. Turning his head to the side, he frowned. "Yep, that's the place."

"You're certain?"

"Positive. I think I'd know where to go, wouldn't you?"

"Could be a trap."

A sharp snicker made it's way from James' throat as he shook his head. "If I wanted you captured or killed, I wouldn't go through this much fucking effort, kid. I'd either just shoot you or snag you while you're sleeping. It's easy enough to do."

"Murder is never easy."

"It is once you're used to the idea of it."

Trowa's eyes narrowed coldly.

"Anyway," James continued, completely unperturbed, "there're a few things I've got to tell you before we get there."

"Please indulge me."

"The guy you're about to meet; you've met him before. And you won't like it."

"Like I liked meeting you?"

A smirk finding his lips, James shook his head. "Such a bitter opinion of me. What did I ever do to you?"

"Made our lives a living hell six months back."

"And saved your lives more times than you can count. Hell, saved your lives more times than you can ever know."

"Really. You expect me to believe that?" Trowa flatly stated.

"No. But it is the truth."

"I never believe someone when they proclaim that something's 'the truth.' More times than not, they're lying through their teeth."

"True on that count," James responded with a shrug, "and that makes a person untrusting. Which, of course, is best for continued survival but is nothing but a shitty setback when trying to actually live out a life amongst other people in a normal society. But that's off the subject. As I was saying originally, you've met him before. And you thought he betrayed you. Let me be the first to tell you – Xavier Johnson's not the one who supposedly screwed you over. At least, it wasn't him entirely. He wasn't the mastermind behind what occurred. It was me."

"Really."

"Yep. The one who ransacked Quatre's little war room, stole your records, pounded Xavier to cover the fact that he was in on what was going on, drugged Chad Lesley."

-- 04:14, 179 Days Ago --

Slowly walking into the room, Duo stared around, his violet eyes huge upon his face. "What the fuck happened here?"

Trowa, meanwhile, was staring wide-eyed at the descended ceiling panel that hung cockeyed from its one intact support, the other having been snapped. The chandelier was in pieces, as was the glass table. Coral was lying scattered about the room, salt water soaking into the Persian rug and delicate reef fishes lying dead upon the ground. The computer terminal that the hidden panel had held was lying on its side on the ground, static dominating its screen and the keyboard that accompanied it snapped in half with its keys scattered aimlessly about the room with every chess piece that had previously been set up upon a board.

Quatre calmly walked over and picked up a pawn that had been carelessly thrown to the floor with the rest of his chess pieces when the tables and chairs had been overturned. Turning it over and over with his slender, pale fingers, he sighed softly. "Damn."

Trowa stared at Quatre. 'I can't believe he's remaining so calm!' Walking to the computer, he picked up the smashed remains of the keyboard, frowning. 'So much destruction… maybe out of frustration? Or…'

Quatre shrugged calmly. "Maybe they suspected that this would derail whatever I was planning. Like stripping the blueprints to a building away from the foreman in charge, thus halting construction, they seem to have been attempting to erase my plans."

"Have they?" Duo quietly whispered as he knelt, slowly picking up a shard of glass that was obviously once a part of the chessboard table.

"Hardly. I use the chessboard to visualize, not to plan. It's what's already in my head that matters. And there, I'm always seven steps ahead of what I have laid out."

Trowa sighed, staring at the disaster of a room. "The only problem is that they may have figured out what you were planning."

"Maybe. But then why destroy it all? Why not wait to see what move I would make, then attempt to use my strategies against me?"

Duo scowled. "My biggest concern isn't over the plan, the room, or none of this shit…"

"Hm?" Glancing over, Quatre raised a brow. Trowa quickly mimicked the move.

"It's that whoever did this is most likely still here."

A quiet groan interrupted their thoughts.

"The floor panel," Quatre softly hissed as Trowa yanked his gun from his holster and readied it.

Nodding, the taller pilot sneaked to the dropping portion of the floor that was once stationed below the chess table, and poked it with his gun. "How do you lift it?"

"The safety latch, right where that tear in the rug is."

Reaching into the tear, he felt the circular device, and gave it a good counter clockwise wrench. He brought his gun to bear as the floor panel dropped.

All three stared in disbelief as the grisly scene unveiled itself to their eyes.

Duo was the first to whisper, "Xavier…?"

-- 22:43, 179 Days Ago --

Trowa stared down the sites of his gun, keeping the forehead of his steadily approaching target perfectly centered in his line of vision. The blaring of the alarms above and around him and the glistening red light that filled the hallways beyond the stairwell that lead to the cellar he was standing in and filtered throughout the room didn't cause him to so much as blink as he stared the intruder down. "Stop," Trowa growled.

Still the stumbling man approached without hesitation. The only thing that seemed to be slowing him down was the dragging of his toes along the concrete floor below him.

"Stop or I'll shoot," Trowa warned one final time as he squinted and peered along his pistol's barrel.

Chad Lesley apparently either did not hear him or was not listening, continuing to walk towards him with his dark eyes wide and unseeing. Light trickles of sweat ran down through his moustache, the perspiration making his face glisten in the faint light thrown by the lamps of the hallway upstairs.

-- 20:03 --

"Covering for him?" Trowa asked, a frown turning the corners of his usually unexpressive lips.

"Telling the truth," his companion breathed quietly.

"The James Waverly I knew wouldn't ever be so forthcoming with the truth."

Sighing quietly, James bowed his head. "Much has changed with the passage of time."

"Oh really? Enough to make you into a completely different person? It's been six months."

"Six months, a year, a decade, a lifetime; doesn't matter. What matters are the events that took place. What time brought, what it took, what I have now and what I had to leave behind to gain what I've got."

Arching a brow, Trowa frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever dreamed, Trowa?"

His brow knitting, Trowa snorted. "We're getting entirely off the subject."

"Have you?"

"I did once." Looking ahead to the shack they were slowly approaching, Trowa let a soft, desolate sigh escape his lungs. "I dreamed of the life I would have with the end of the war, existing in a world of peace with those I care for without having to worry about who was going to die next and when, without having to keep my eyes constantly perusing my environment to find my next attacker before he found me."

"Nice dream, kid. What happened to it?"

"It's… nearly come true."

"Nearly?" James inquired.

"I can't stop looking over my shoulder. No matter how much I attempt to convince myself that our time as soldiers is done and the time for our lives as normal civilians has arrived, I can't stop looking."

"But you continue to attempt to advert your eyes from those who would kill you?"

"Yes. I want that life to come to pass; I want to live a life where I have no worries outside of how my next performance will go and what Catherine will be attempting to force on me for dinner." Bowing his head, Trowa lifted a hand to tug the collar of his jacket up to shield his neck from the cold breadth of wind that whistled past them as they made their way over the cold sands.

"You're still clinging to the hopes of youth. The hope to live, the hope to prove yourself. Your youth, your life, your innocence. You're still living the beauty of youth, tainted by the stain of the nasty, harsh world that surrounds us."

Trowa arched a brow.

"Much as I'm still wishing I could cling to the dreams of the past, the hopes I held as a younger, more foolish, less bitter man. As I'm wishing I could hold on to the visage of my childish wants; my ideals and plans and longings, the dreams of my earlier days."

"You make it sound as if this change has been occurring for years rather than a few months."

"It has," James clarified. "It's simply that events as of late have forced my hand – they've forced me to move on."

"And you're bitter about moving on?"

"Let us simply say that you can never leave the past behind without leaving a piece of your youth."

"Awfully cynical viewpoint."

"And unfortunately, overly true."

Trowa frowned as they walked steadily on. Glancing over once more, he asked, "So the truth is what you've revealed to me, then? You were the one responsible for everything? And Xavier is the one who's behind everything that's happening now?"

"You're reading too deeply into what I've told you. I was responsible for most of what happened six months ago. Not entirely responsible, but I was the mastermind behind it all that set the gears into motion. Xavier was working with me at the time for the same goal."

Trowa sputtered, staring at him.

"No, I'm not kidding. We kept that fact hidden so if either of us were compromised we wouldn't be easily traced to one another. At least, we did so until the end, when Xavier dropped the ball in his panic. Foolish moron never did hold up well under any kind of pressure – it's what gives him the smaller paycheck. Not as capable."

"Blowing your own horn?"

"Being honest."

Trowa nodded once. "Going to continue? You've yet to tell me about the here and now."

"Xavier's not the one behind everything that's happening now. You, kid, won't meet that party. Xavier simply has more information than I do seeing as how he was hired directly by our employer, and thus has more to tell you. I'm more of a third party here than anything; I don't know everything that's happening on this end of the spectrum, and frankly I really don't care to know everything that's going on. This has nothing to do with what I want out of life anymore. That much I've discovered. It won't affect my survival, and it won't affect my ultimate goals. The only thing in my life it'll interfere with, so far as I've seen, is my bank account and perhaps my prospective timeline for getting certain things done."

Turning a curious eye to his companion, Trowa frowned. "So-"

"We're here," James interrupted with a nod. "Best head on inside before it gets much colder, kid."

A clip of a nod indicating agreement was all that Trowa gave the longhaired man before he delicately pushed against the door of the ransack little shack. As the door creaked loudly, he eased himself inside.

James' eyes narrowed as the door closed behind him.

'Take all the time you need, kid.'

'Keep him busy.'

Slowly walking away from the small establishment, James' lips turned with a smug, quick smirk.

'You're doing an excellent job already. Going right along with what I expect you to do; thanks for being a perfect little puppet.'

'And while you keep him busy, I've got some things to check up on.'

Circling the building, the lank man quickly and easily located the car rented by Xavier Johnson. Pulling a Swiss Army knife from his back pocket, he carefully inserted the nail file into the keyhole of the driver's side door and gave it a quick twist. Jostling it a few times and twisting it again, he lifted the door handle and let himself into the vehicle.

After searching it carefully for any and all paperwork that it held, he held what he'd discovered under the amber illumination of the dome lamp. Committing the information to memory, he swiftly returned those slips of paper – a vehicle registration card, a copy of the rental agreement for the vehicle, a batch of receipts including those for a meal from Burger King and a room at the Holiday Inn Express in Fresno, a stray telephone number, a crudely drawn road map – to the locations where he'd found them.

As a final touch, he slipped a microphone receiver between the plastic molded sheets that made the covering of the steering column before exiting the car and carefully locking its door once more.

_tbc..._


	5. Chapter V

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_the useless drags, the empty days  
__the lonely towers of long mistakes  
__to forgotten faces and faded loves  
__sitting still was never enough_

_Here Is No Why_

-- 01:38 --

"You look much more determined now, Mr. Barton."

Remaining silent, Trowa contented himself with staring out across the vast expanse of dark desert that sprawled towards the distant horizon than turning his gaze to meet that of his walking companion's. Arms crossed over his chest and hands clutching the thin jacket he wore tightly across his body, he shuddered as the chill of the early morning air caressed his skin with its dry cold touch. A breadth of a huffed sigh eased from his nostrils in reply to the older man's inquiry, followed by a hint of a shrug of his frozen, hunched shoulders.

"Good," James stated flatly. "Meaning that you'll be more likely to cooperate with me."

"Don't count on it," Trowa replied.

"Oh really?"

"Xavier didn't tell me everything. And he hinted that you might know more than you're letting on to."

"And you trust him more than you do me."

"He's not the one who double-crossed us last time we'd met," Trowa blandly grumbled.

"Ah, but he is," James chortled. "He, as much as I, was the back-stabbing fuck-face who made your lives hell."

"He didn't beat Quatre."

"The kid allowed it to cover for our activities within Bradshaw's base. Blame him, not me. Shoot the fucking messenger, I swear."

Trowa turned his gaze, glowering at James. "I still don't trust you. I don't trust him either, but you have much less of a kosher reputation in my book."

Smirking callously, winking one hazel eye, James clucked his tongue. "Careful there, kid. You're letting your emotions show."

Stiffening, his eyes veritably glowing with rage, Trowa turned his attention away from his walking partner and returned his gaze to the direction in which the motorcycle they'd taken to reach their desolate location was stationed.

"So, what did he tell you?"

"Nothing that concerns you. Otherwise you'd have been invited in as well."

"You're about as subtle as a fucking brick, kid."

Silence overtook the pair as Trowa refused to grant his partner the dignity of receiving a reply to his statement.

"There's the bike. Sooner we get back to the hotel, the better."

"Really," Trowa flatly grunted.

"Yep. After all, I've got work to do."

"Work? What does it concern?"

A chuckle leaking from his throat, James shook his head. "Nothing to do with you or little Mr. Winner. It's a side job of mine that I've been putting on hold for quite some time. Just got to find some shit out."

"So I'm not invited to eves drop."

"You can listen in all you fucking want. You won't get what's going on."

"You think I'm that dull?"

"No. Just that uniformed."

"Really."

James nodded.

"We'll just have to see."

Arching a brow, James glanced over at his stoic companion as Trowa shoved his hands more deeply into the warmth of his jacket pockets. 'Hmm. 'We'll just have to see,' huh? What is it you think you know, kid? Why is your aura so strong with confidence?'

Glaring at the horizon, James let a huff of breath explode from his lungs, carrying with it the exasperation that flooded his mind.

'What did Xavier tell you?'

-- 16:24 --

'Wonder if the kid's tried to escape from that hotel room to try and reach Mr. Winner yet.'

Calmly shifting his stance, James dropped to one knee before the neatly groomed mound of grass before him. Twirling the red rose he'd purchased a few minutes earlier idly between his fingers, he sighed as he stared at the granite marker that stood opposite the small mound of his person.

'That is, if Xavier's told him what's going to be occurring. However, that's something I highly doubt. It's not good for either of us to make any preemptive strikes at this point in the game. Best just to wait and wait some more, and his employer knows that. The kid's on to what we're planning. He's already a few steps ahead of the program and Xavier has to know that; otherwise he wouldn't have approved of me bringing bang-boy into this mess.'

'Besides, Century Discover can't afford us making a mistake at this point. If it could, it would have made its intentions more public. Moved on to step two. The fact that we're still in the initial setup means that Xavier hasn't spilled the beans yet.'

'Which means I've still got time….'

The blood-red rose found its home atop the upraised grass, its ruby petals shining brightly in stark contrast with the lush green grass. Glancing down at the delicate flower for but a moment, he nodded once before returning his staring gaze to the marker.

'I certainly hope you're resting in peace, Theresa. That you're not rolling over in your grave, knowing that I'm still doing this.'

Rising to his feet, he sighed quietly.

'I hope you're not pissed with the fact that I'm carrying on with the plan that killed you.'

"Never imagined you'd bring your sorry ass back here."

James' shoulders instantly tensed as the breath he'd drawn but moments earlier froze in his lungs, refusing to ease from his body. His eyes slowly narrowed of their own accord, their hazel coloration dark and displeased as his lips curled into a sneer, revealing tightly clenched teeth. "Xavier," he acknowledged, his words substituting fully for the nod of the head that normally would have accompanied his greeting, "what the hell. Didn't think you visited graveyards."

"Same could be said of you, old friend," the lank man said with a chipper smile gracing his angular face. Walking towards the grave's visitor, his hands stuffed in his acid-washed jeans' pockets, he nodded his greetings. Coming to stand next to James, he pulled his hands free of his pockets and quickly tucked in his loose, unmarked white t-shirt. Lifting one hand and brushing its fingers quickly through his shortly cropped russet hair, he glanced over with innocent chocolate-brown eyes and chuckled. "Didn't think you were one to reminisce on the past."

"Always have been. I pay homage to those who've died because of what I've done."

"That's surprisingly sweet of you, James," Xavier cooed.

"You, though. I didn't think you were one to come slinking around the graves of those you've murdered."

Shoulders drooping, his smile fading, Xavier sighed. "Don't tell me you're actually still sore about that."

"Nah." A casual shrug easing the tension that raced through his statue-stiff body, James forced a chuckle from his throat. "Told you before, dumb ass. It was a relief getting the ball and chain off my ankle. Being free is much preferable to being locked down into a dull life like that. Seeing the possibility to continue with the old ways is better than stagnating under that stale thumb, in that unchanging world, without any hope for a man like me to ever see real happiness."

Arching a brow, his lips curling into a sneer, the taller man chuckled. "You so freely speak so about her and that life? And yet you get so pissy when I speak about your little girl."

All semblance of a smile faded from James' lips. Glaring at his counterpart, murder burning in his eyes, he hissed softly, "It's different this time."

"Is it really?"

"Yes. And if you dare think of harming her, I'm going to wrench your arms off your body and beat you to death with them right after I gag the shit out of you with whatever will be left of your shirt after I unload a clip into that ugly fucking body of yours."

"Huh." A smile replacing his sneer, Xavier chuckled. "Nice to see that you actually care about this one, James."

Closing his eyes, he turned his face back towards the grave before letting them open once more. "Of course I care for this one. I actually have the possibility to live the life I want, yet still have her when I'm finished with the setup and execution of all of this, provided I survive. Hell, could have just sat back and watched things toss themselves into place, but your fucking self just had to interfere."

"You wanted me to interfere. Otherwise you wouldn't have left yourself so open, and her so vulnerable."

"Say whatever you want."

"So, why is it you let yourself be cajoled like this, James?" Arching a brow, Xavier flashed a genial smile. "You're following nearly the same path you strode upon when I had to remove Theresa from your life to get your lazy ass moving. It's almost as if history's repeating itself, save that the rock you call a heart flutters every once in a while for this chick you've got stashed away."

Clearing his throat, he sighed quietly. "It's not as if I didn't care about Theresa also. I just couldn't see any hope in the life that involved her for the plan to develop. That's why I let you interfere instead of leaping into the foray running the moment my feet hit the ground like I have this time."

Turning towards the simple grave, Xavier bowed in homage to it. "I see, I see. Of course, though, I don't believe you worth shit – you've always been such a lying bitch. Just leaves me with my own speculations about all of this."

James shook his head. "And you're wrong. I did care, despite what you like to believe, despite what you like to remind me that I allowed it to happen."

"I know what I know, you feel what you feel. It's the past, and nothing either of us does can possibly erase what happened. I hold regrets too, you know. But I'm not one to let those regrets affect my present or decide my future. You seem content to allow that to happen."

"Sure."

Walking away from James' side, Xavier bowed politely before the tombstone before walking along side of it, brushing dust from its top with a casual swipe of a callused hand. Finishing his brief bout of maintenance with a pat of a hand upon the tombstone's top, Xavier faced James and smiled. "At least you can know that she didn't suffer for long. At least I made it quick."

"Yeah."

"Better death than Chad would've given her."

"Yeah."

"And look at it this way. If she wouldn't have been a necessary sacrifice, we would never have gotten as far as we have."

James silently nodded.

Walking past the perfectly still man, Xavier let his eyes narrow, his friendly smile fading once more into a predatory slit of a sneer. "Still, it was such a loss. She was a great woman. Would be a pity if it had to happen again."

Fist clenching tightly at his sides, James' lips turned towards a scowl as his hazel eyes closed.

"Best be careful with your actions, James. Remember; failure won't result in the end of your life alone."

As Xavier wandered out of the graveyard, his white t-shirt and jeans clad body fading into the distance, James let his eyes open once more.

The wet blood droplets that pooled on his knuckles, oozing from his palms, raced towards the ground to splash into the steadily growing puddle that had over the course of the conversation formed at his feet.

'He's threatening me.'

'Nothing but empty threats.'

Shaking his head, he turned sharply on his heel, marching towards the distant parking lot where he'd left his bike.

'Nothing but empty fucking threats.'

Straddling the motorcycle, he turned the ignition and revved the engine, listening to it growl. Moments later, he was tearing down the road, speeding towards the hotel he'd claimed as his temporary home with the banged ex-Gundam pilot.

He suddenly had the urge to make a phone call.

-- 12:05 --

Leaning back in his chair, James' foot waved back and forth in time with the steady thump of music that poured from the cheap radio/alarm clock's thin, worn speakers. Closing his eyes, he lifted his beer can to his lips and slurped thirstily of the golden liquid held in its depths, letting a content belch slip from his lips a few moments later.

"So you plan to sit around and drink until Quatre arrives," Trowa snorted, his flat eyes empty while his voice carried the slightest hint of annoyance upon its roughened edges. Folding his arms on the table they both sat at, he sighed and dropped his chin to rest in the cradle his arms made, staring at his inopportune partner in the small hotel room.

Putting down his beer, James grabbed the box of Ritz crackers he'd bought in the last convenience store they'd passed on their way back from the desolate deserts they'd visited in the darkness of the last night and shook it, spilling a few salty wafers into his hand. Stuffing them into his mouth, he chewed and nodded, leaning back in his chair, giving a small tape recorder that was stationed beside his hand on the table a slight tap. "I'm doing something productive. Shut up so I can listen, will you?"

Emerald eyes narrowing, Trowa shook his head. "What is it you think you're doing? And why are you worried about missing anything? You can replay whatever conversations are had later."

"Hmph. So you mean you're gonna flap your lips at me till you pry some answers out of me, eh?"

"Got that right," Trowa stated, his lips twitching slightly to hint towards the smile they longed to make.

"Fucking hell." With a snort, James sank more deeply into his hotel chair, his hands folding on his stomach. "Fine. So you want to know what I'm doing?"

"Yep."

"Listening to truckers on CB."

"If you're going to lie to me, could you at least make it a believable one?" Trowa sighed.

A sharp bark of laughter made its way from the longhaired man. "Fine, fine. I'm listening to see if that little dick-weed Xavier's going to be conversing with anyone anytime soon. Wondering if he's caught on to the fact that his little rental is bugged."

"You planted a microphone in his car."

"Yep."

"So you really don't know what's going on?"

A snort leaked from James' nose. "Whatever that bitch told you, I don't know shit. Not this time. I got dragged in just like you did, kiddo. Some lives got threatened, some promises were made, and so here I am, passing on the favor. All I know is that this ain't got nothin' to do with the ideal future I want. Xavier's got his wires twisted somewhere; he's lost sight of the goal, I think. Either that or the greedy bastard's just in it for the money. Don't know."

"You claimed you worked together."

"We did."

Trowa smirked slightly, his lips turning in a subtle, soft curl. "You two seem to hate each other."

"What can I say? The man's an obstinate prick. Always gets in the way, always going off on some random tangent, always an insubordinate ass making life more difficult than it needs to be."

"Then why not just murder him? After all, you were the one who proclaimed that the institution of murder is something that becomes quite easy to indulge in when one gets used to it."

James shrugged his shoulders, causing his body to slip further down into the warmth of his chair's cushions. "Because the fuck-head's useful. Sometimes his wild traipsing down wild far-flung roads reveal a useful bit of information or an entirely separate path that more efficiently leads us towards our goals. Sometimes he stumbles across something relevant entirely by luck that any person actively searching would have missed. And he's just good damned cannon fodder."

"Really."

"Ain't no love lost between us. Just partners." Reaching up, his hand slunk along the top of the table, blindly groping for his beer. Coming in contact with its smooth cylindrical container, he lifted it carefully from its place and brought it to vanish into the cushions of his thickly padded chair.

As minutes of silence stretched between them, filled only by the occasional slurp of beer or the crunching of a Ritz cracker being chewed and eaten, Trowa ventured to speak again.

"If you aren't interested in what's truly going on here, why are you spying on Xavier?"

The return of the empty atmosphere that had dominated but seconds before left the emerald-eyed boy frowning.

Voice calm and quiet, the older man finally softly answered, "Because I don't trust that little slime-ball."

"But you're partners."

"He hasn't given me enough of the details behind this for me to even consider him as a partner."

Arching a brow, the teen frowned. "Then why exactly are you working with him? For Quatre?"

"…. Hardly."

"Then why?"

"Because."

"Because it not an answer," Trowa pointed out.

"It's the best answer you're going to receive," James retorted.

As silence fell over them once more, Trowa just stared out the window, watching as the shadows of the thin and wispy clouds that roved in the highest stretches of the atmosphere danced over the ground, leaving the dusty tan landscape in deliciously cool shade for but a moment before sliding away, baking it mercilessly in the hot desert sunlight once again.

-- 13:55, 8 Days Ago --

The caller smiled his most friendly grin, brown eyes open and bright as he ran a hand quickly through his shortly cropped and spiked brown hair. "Nothing much, old buddy. Just have a proposition for you. A bit of a job, you might say."

"Proposition, eh? Sorry, Xavier, but I retired awhile ago. You know that. Otherwise I'd still be working for Kesslinger, running around in the colonies instead of here in Butt-fuck Alaska freezing my ass off."

Nodding, Xavier lifted his own drink to his lips and took a sip. "I thought as much. Otherwise it would have been easier to track you down. It took me half a year to locate you, you know."

"Glad to hear I was that well hidden. Wasn't even trying. You must be losing your touch, man… I'm in the fucking phone book."

"Heh. I should have thought of that," Xavier chuckled, shaking his head. "But anyway, are you certain you won't even hear my proposition out?"

"Pretty fucking certain. My girl won't be happy if I left."

"Your girl…? Since when did you have… I can't see how….."

Rolling his hazel eyes, the man took a long swig off his bottle and grunted. "Not daughter, you shit. My girl. The one I'm living with."

"Oh, gotcha. When do I get to meet this one?"

"Never, prick."

Xavier smirked. "And why not?"

"Because. She doesn't need to be associated with ass-wipes like you. Plus I know what happens when you drop by for unexpected visits. You're almost as bad as I am."

Shaking his head, Xavier laughed. "Not even, old buddy. I couldn't come close to you when it comes to murder."

Smirking at his friend, the man chuckled softly, menace lingering in his voice. "Don't even fucking lie. I know what you're like."

"Well, if you know me so very well, then you'd think again about listening to my little proposition, my friend. After all, I know where you are. Otherwise I'd never have been able to call you, especially considering that I didn't use the phone book to track your ass down."

Smile vanishing, he leaned forward, his hazel eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't fucking dare."

"Try me."

"Fucker!"

Xavier smirked, lifting his drink and sipping from it once more. "You know how it is, my old friend. The purpose, the plan, the job is everything. Ruthless behavior is necessary to bring the plan into being and to successfully see its end. And if ruthless behavior is needed to bring a means to an end, then it must be used. After all," he started, taking another sip before continuing, "you can't be there twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to protect that which is precious to you. And you can't be on the ball and aware of everything that's surrounding you at all times, either."

"Now you're stooping to threats."

"Because you're necessary, and threats are all that move you at times. Right now seems to be one of those times when you won't respond to anything other than threats, which you know are in no way idle. You don't move, I will. And as you know, I'm as dedicated to the completion of whatever job I'm assigned to as you are to your almighty plan."

"Shit," the man snorted, leaning back, glaring at the monitor coldly as he relied on the backrest of the stool to hold him upright, "how am I to know that you'll even do anything? You're a chicken-livered shit-brain after all. Never been capable of much."

Chuckling quietly, his smirk turning more menacing than before, Xavier leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table upon which the videophone he was using sat. "But I am capable of murdering your little girl. Maybe not you, but your girl would be easy prey. And I'm willing to do such, if you don't listen to my proposition – and agree to assist me. The person I'm working for could very well bring about the future we've desired for so long; the very future that was stolen from us could be achieved by following this new path. I want to see it happen. I want it more than anything. I want the happiness that was stolen from me, the life that was taken from me, returned. And I'll do anything to retrieve it."

"Even if it means selling yourself out, Xavier?"

"Never stopped either of us before. First Kesslinger, now my newest employers for me. For you, I'll be damned if I can even start to count."

"But why me?"

"Because you're the only one I can trust to pull it off."

"You expect me to work with you after you've threatened her? And you're expecting me to fucking abandon the life I've finally found to follow you and your ridiculous plots into whatever future it'll craft, one that's likely to destroy the one I've already made?"

"You have before, my friend. Family, obligations, jobs and normal lives have never appealed to you for as long as I've known you. After all, weren't you the one who shrugged off the fact that I killed your last precious little interest? And why did you shrug it off? Why'd you make up the excuse that you were better off without her leeching off of you and holding you to the stagnation of an ordinary family-man life? Because you know that the future we both seek would be ideal for both of us, giving us everything we could ever desire with our filthy, greedy minds and hearts. Because you know that I'll not let you go without reward if you cooperate with me, nor will I let you go unpunished if your refuse me."

The man snarled softly, "You lousy bastard…."

-- 17:01 --

'He's stooping to threatening me.'

Taking a sip of his beer, James closed his eyes, his frown remaining firmly in place.

'Reminding me about the days and mistakes of the past, about people I've tried so damned hard and long to forget about, about events I've tried to run from instead of sit on for the rest of my life. Why the hell is he doing this to me?'

'Could it be that he's simply trying to provoke me into moving? Trying to get me to get my ass in gear and work with their plan?'

"Mind moving your foot?"

"Sure thing." Lifting his boot off the table, James let his chair thud back onto all four legs to sit upright.

"Thanks. Couldn't see the TV through you."

Nodding once, the longhaired man returned to scratching his head, contemplating all that had occurred that day.

"So the day after tomorrow, right?"

"Say again, kid?" Arching a brow over a hazel eye, James frowned. "Wasn't payin' attention."

"Obviously," Trowa retorted with a quick, clipped shake of his head. "Day after tomorrow. That's when Quatre's going to be here, isn't it?"

"Should be. Provided nothing goes wrong." Provided he's as ahead of the game as I'm thinking he is. If so, he won't encounter any problems. If not…."

"What do you mean by 'provided nothing goes wrong'?"

"Provided that the people who want his pasty blonde ass smeared across the starry fields of space don't off him."

Trowa's entire frame stiffened.

"Don't worry 'bout it," James said with a shrug. "Kid's already ahead of the game. I doubt he'd go stumbling into any fool trap those morons could set for him."

"That means he doesn't need either of us," Trowa observed.

"Wrongo. Things've been progressing here, more than even I've expected. I don't know if he's completely on top of everything that's been happening; I just know that he's ahead on the game that's being played in space. Earth's been wandering down its own happy path, blindly staggering under the clouds of bliss without seeing the storm that's brewing in them."

"What do you mean by that?"

James chuckled softly. "You'll come to find out soon enough, kid. No reason for me to indulge you."

"If you spill, we'll be better prepared."

"Precisely. No reason for me to indulge you."

"You… want us to be unprepared."

"Yep."

As silence fell over them, Trowa glaring and James staring at the backsides of his eyelids, the older man leaned back in his chair once again, keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground to keep himself from falling over and to allow Trowa's view of the television to remain unobstructed for that moment when he should choose to return his attention to it. His mind slipping back into quiet contemplation, James sighed softly, lifting his beverage once again and taking another slow sip.

'If you were prepared, nothing would work out as planned. Things've got to flow as they are to succeed.'

'That's probably why they're so worried about the Winner kid – he has the greatest potential for fucking everything up. Which is why they've got planned what they've got planned. That much is easy enough to determine.'

'But why Xavier got me involved… he knows my skews towards everything that's currently in play. He knows I'm not going to follow every verdict past by our employer.'

'And why he had to so forcibly get me involved… had to leave me virtually no choice but to follow him in this insane little escapade…'

'No doubt, that shit-bag has something up his sleeve. Or he has some ulterior motive of his own, for which he needs either assistance or a scapegoat.'

'Damn you, Xavier…'

'What do you have up your sleeve?'

-- 06:46 --

"You know, for you claiming that Mr. Johnson is nothing but an incompetent moron, you certainly are taking quite an interest in him."

Glancing over at his green-eyed roommate, James shrugged. "He knows what's going on."

"You said you weren't interested."

"Need to be interested enough to save my own life."

Arching a brow, Trowa flopped down in the chair opposite of James Waverly at the small table that occupied their two-bed hotel room. "Oh really."

A sharp chuckle leaking from James' throat, he nods once. "Listen, kid, got my own thing I need to do right now. You're bugging the hell out of me. Why don't you get some rest?"

"Tell me what you're going to be doing."

"No."

"Or I won't stop bothering you."

"Talk all you like, kid. Can't do much to distract me."

Trowa frowned. "I'll sing."

"You'll WHAT?"

"Music will annoy the piss out of you. I'll sing something catchy if you don't tell me what you're doing."

Rolling his eyes, James opened his laptop and pressed the power button. Long quiet moments went by as he began typing, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Christ, what is all of this?' he thought as he poured through the information he'd gleaned from the network he'd remotely accessed, shaking his head. Go to find one little bit of information, and-

"We represent the Lollypop Guild! The Lollypop Guild! The Lollypop Guild! And in the name of the Lollypop Guild, we wish to welcome you to Munchki-"

"SHADDUP!"

"I'll continue."

Burying his head into his hands, James snarled. "Bastard. Fine. You want to know? I'll tell you a few details."

"You won't tell me everything?"

"You know the details of the plan?"

Trowa blinked once, confusion evident on his face. "What plan?"

"Precisely. Even if I tell you everything, you won't get half of it it'll never be relevant to you. So I'll tell you what you need to know, if only to get you to shut the hell up for a few hours so I can get what I need to get done finished."

James's eyes narrowed as Trowa's lips curled into a smile. "Deal."

_tbc..._


	6. Chapter VI

Review Replies:

Pandora-chan: Thanks for reviewing both the story and the prelude! I was wondering if the letter was getting overlooked. (sweatdrop) To explain myself as to the 'same title, different postings' question, one's rated T so the average browser can spot it and advises that average browser that the rest is rated M (I had some reviewers for Once, also rated T, who may or may not search under the All Ratings listing, so I wanted to ensure they could find it. .;;)

Yurikitsune: Thanks for all the reviews! The prelude seems to get a bit overlooked – thanks for taking a few moments to read it. :) And for your reviews of the rest of the story, thank you again! Such glowing compliments. You guys make me blush like a school girl. OK, yes, I'm a girl, but I'm far removed from school. (laughs) As for characterization, I'm playing in the newest chapters. Heh heh. Can't wait to see what you guys think!

MikaSamu: I'm glad you liked the return of the OCs! Sometimes people seem to flail over original character inductions, but I'm happy to see that those two are being well received. Thanks for continuing to read, and I hope my newest chapters are satisfying.

Angl: (laughs) Well, I was listening to the Trowa character image songs (and shuddering like mad, as his voice actor (love him to pieces, however…) can't carry a tune to save his life) and typing out that scene. Sure enough, the first thing that popped into my head was the Lollypop Guild. It all came together. I laughed like crazy. Glad you found it funny as well! Now we can all snigger as one at that thought, neh?

A/N: Information on the guns that may not be well known and are presented in this chapter can be found in the end-chapter notes.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_I walk alone, I walk alone to find the way home  
I'm on my own, I'm on my own to see the ways  
that I can't help the days, you will make it home o.k.  
I know you can, and you can_

_We Only Come Out At Night_

-- 06:31 --

Stretching, a mighty yawn roaring past his lips as his fingers intertwined with one another and reached for the bright blue heavens and stringy wisps of pale white cloud that floated overhead and eyes pinched shut against the bright intrusive rays of the morning's sun, James greeted the newborn day with a groan of satisfaction as his back crackled and popped. Smacking his lips as he dropped his arms, he stood for a few moments facing the sun with his eyes closed, the small smile upon his lips belaying his enjoyment of the mild, cool atmosphere that lingered over the yellow desert sands and black California highways at that time of morning, when the sun had barely crested the eastern horizon to bathe the desolate land with its soft warming rays. Soon it would be ungodly hot, the sands and those few unfortunates who dared to walk or ride openly upon the reflective crystalline sand or the black asphalt road that served as the only path to follow towards civilization being baked by the sun like any baker's creation simmered on a stove or cooked in an oven.

Wiping the moisture that had gathered at the corners of his eyes during his yawn away with a fingertip, he cracked open his eyes, squinting at the radiance that already danced over the desert landscape, bright and cheerful yet foretelling of the immense misery that would be deposited upon the shoulders of any who dared to risk the wrath of the wastelands later that day by travelling over them. "Gonna be another lovely day," he commented to no one in particular while nodding at the scene before him and spreading his arms to his sides, soaking in the cool air even as he stretched his chest and grunted in pleasure as his sternum popped audibly.

"Don't you ever sleep in?" a quiet grumble leaked from the doorway, accompanied by the shuffle of slipper-covered feet scraping along the pavement of the walkway that was laid outside of the dark hotel room's door and the scent of pungent, overly-strong coffee. "Could be a little more quiet when you get up for the benefit of those people who actually like to sleep in the morning."

Arching one slim brow over a completely aware hazel eye, James chuckled. "Fuck off, Barton. If you can't sleep through the supposed 'racket' of me getting up, then you aren't sleeping heavily enough to warrant continued slumber. Besides, I need you up to start the coffee going."

Sleep-glazed green eyes glowered with venomous hate as the other man merrily whistled and walked into the warm hotel room to empty the coffee pot into one of the provided plastic cups that was laid upon their dresser whenever housekeeping swung by in the early afternoon. "I see. So my only purpose on this entire little trip is to make you coffee."

"Pretty much, for the time being," James replied with an uncaring shrug, stepping back out of the hotel room's dark interior to bask in the early morning light again. "Hey, mind turning on the radio? I'd like to listen to the weather reports for awhile."

"Why?" Trowa huffed after he'd swallowed the large gulp of the black liquid he'd brewed earlier that he'd sucked into his mouth upon the moment of James' order. "It's going to be hot. Again. Like it has been every damned day that we've been here."

"Just do it, you little brat."

Rolling his eyes, Trowa grumbled quietly that he needed to brew another pot of coffee anyway as he turned and shuffled into the warmth of the hotel room. Looking longingly at the rumpled sheets that sprawled over his cooling bed, he sighed. "Not going to be any time to get back to sleep, is there?"

"Doubtful," came the reply from just outside of the room.

"Figured as much," Trowa grunted as he meandered to the coffee machine and withdrew the small filter basket. Ripping open the second of the coffee-ground packets with his teeth, he dumped the fine powdery substance into the basket on top of what already rested there, his tired eyes watching as the dark brown pieces of ground bean created a fine dusty layer over their soaked, blackened brethren from the previous bag. Replacing the basket, he then took the coffeepot into the small restroom the hotel room provided and filled it with barely enough water to fill two cups. Pouring it into the machine upon his return to the main bedroom, he pressed the power button and sat down on the edge of his unmade bed, staring intently at the small white machine, willing it with all of his soul to begin to drip. "Going to fill me in on what we're going to be doing today?" he called, eyes glued to the small pot, watching as the first of many dark droplets danced upon the bottom of the glass pot.

"Depends on the weather."

Grunting, Trowa dragged himself off of his comfortable seat and shuffled to the clock radio that rested on the nightstand that separated the two beds. Switching the switch found upon the device's left side to the 'ON' position, he wandered back to the edge of the bed to continue his vigilant surveillance of the coffeepot's progress as the radio slowly came to life.

James wandered in a few moments later, closing the door behind him and dragging the drapes open by the pull-rod attached to them. Smirking as he watched Trowa, he shook his head. "You look so fucking pathetic in the mornings, kid. With this astounding level of awareness, it's damned near impossible to believe that you were once a Gundam pilot."

"Shut up," Trowa snappily grumped as he reached for the coffeepot and poured the already brown liquid that filled it back into the water chamber. Replacing the pot on its heating pad, he pressed the power button again and leaned back, staring through half-hooded eyes as it began to gurgle once more.

Cocking his head, the older man smirked. "Storm out in the Pacific. Tomorrow's going to have some good surf."

"And so?" Trowa uttered through his yawn, barely remembering to cover his lips with his hand in the barest sign of politeness to his roommate that he felt obligated to show.

"We'll be hitting the beach tomorrow."

"Why? We've got more important things to do." Smacking his lips, Trowa turned his plastic cup round and round between his dexterous fingertips, snorting as their tired efforts allowed the vessel to topple onto the carpet. Leaning at the waist, he swiftly scooped it back up and resumed his menial game of spinning it, huffing a tired breadth of air through his bangs to temporarily sweep them out of his eyes.

"Like what?" James asked, arching a brow.

"Like meeting Quatre at the space port. He should be coming in tomorrow, right? That's what you've been telling me all this time."

A smirk took the longhaired man's lips. "He'll be meeting us, if nothing else. Betting anything, the kid's already on Earth. Probably biding his time till he feels its safe to meet up."

"You're not serious are you?" Glancing over his shoulder, Trowa glared as devastating of a glare as he could muster given his current state of awareness.

"Actually, I am. I've been suspecting that he'd get here tomorrow. That means that very likely others are suspecting the same. Meaning, to keep himself safe for the time being, he's probably arrived today and is just hiding out somewhere." Rising from his seat, James swept to the coffeepot and grasped it the moment the last drop that struggled to separate itself from the thick maze of grounds that filled the filter basket plopped into the black liquid contained in the glass housing much to Trowa's dismay. Pouring his plastic cup to the brim, he replaced it upon its hot pad, leaving the ex-pilot to quickly scavenge the remains on his own. "The kid's smart. He won't fall into anyone's expectations. Keeping one step ahead of the competition is his specialty – hell, he was one step ahead of me when I got you involved in the rescue act. Already knew that it was me who was saving his ass."

"Really? You never told me that before," Trowa noted as he slurped his pitch black coffee, his emerald eyes starting to show the most vague spark of life possible in their depths as the caffeine contained in his drink finally started filtering into his blood stream. "So he's been ahead of not only your cohort's plans, but of you too? Just like before?"

"Yeah, just like before."

Trowa smirked at James' obvious agitation. "He's outsmarting you again."

Fixing a glare over the edge of his cup as he finished draining another draught of the bitter, thick fluid, James huffed. "Do you want to live to see your little would-be lover-boy, or don't you?"

Temporarily satiated with his small victory, Trowa leaned back with a smile on his lips. "I'll be quiet."

"Good."

-- 10:44, Yesterday --

"You going to tell me what I want to know?"

"Shut up, kid. I'm trying to listen."

"You've been telling me that for the last four hours."

"Quiet already."

"What're you listening to?"

"Xavier's chatting with someone."

"I see."

Turning up the volume on the receiver placed upon the small table that occupied the hotel room, James scowled as he simultaneously pushed on the earpiece he had inserted, trying to discern exactly what was being said. 'Come on, you little cock sucking fuck. Speak up.'

He narrowed his eyes in frustration, trying desperately to separate static from voices in his mind.

Trowa wisely remained quiet, seeing the intense concentration written across his impromptu partner's face. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his own hearing, trying to listen to what few scraps of conversation he could glean from the high-powered device that was currently being used, its static-laced noise being the only sound in the room.

"- you're certain of this, are yo – ay after tomorrow?" one voice chirped brightly, its friendly tone easily recognized and placed as being the vocalizations of Xavier Johnson.

"- am. The shutt – at L – around noon," another voice muttered, its distance from the small remote placed in the rental car Xavier drove causing it to mingle with the static that came over the receiver more than the other spy's voice.

"I see! Very we – en, we'll be on the lookout. Ja – ld be getting into position."

" He kno – othing, right?"

"No problems there. I to – them nothing."

"Even to th – id?"

"He knows enough to no – st him."

"Perfect."

The sound of the car's engine starting was deafening, roaring through the small microphone's receiver. James' finger quickly found the power button and flicked it, killing the noise that poured from the tiny device. Leaning back in his chair, placing his fingertips together after rolling the wires of his receiver into a neat bundle, his dark hazel eyes found their focus on Trowa's face. "What do you make of that, kid?"

Trowa frowned, scratching his chin. "They were talking about Quatre, weren't they?"

"Yep."

"He's arriving the day after tomorrow. And you're supposed to be in position."

"Obviously. I'm asking what you're reading from the conversation, not what they said. I know exactly what they said, just as you do."

Remaining silent for a few moments, Trowa's emerald eyes matched the hazel stare of his companion. "They've been lying to me, attempting to get me to not trust you for some reason. And they've really told me nothing, just as they've so informed you. We're both lost in the dark."

Leaning forward, gathering the device off the table with a swoop of the hand, James rose from his seat and walked to his suitcase. Dropping it onto the clothing bundled within the luggage, he nodded once. "Bingo."

"But why would they do that?" Trowa quietly mused.

Walking back to his seat, James flopped back down onto it and sighed. "Because both of us are being set up."

"Why would anyone be after me?"

"Not you, you pompous jackass. Me and Quatre."

Arching a brow, Trowa leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin upon his hands. "Why are they after Quatre in the first place, Mr. Waverly?"

"Because he's an obstacle."

"To what?"

"Their plans."

"You mean the plan?" Trowa asked, arching a brow. "The plan you're always harping on?"

"Wrong plan, kid," James replied with a smirk. "Not our plan. Their plan."

"Who's?"

"Can't tell you that."

Rocking back in his chair, his lips twisted with a scowl of frustration, Trowa grunted, "Damn it. This is starting to sound a lot like the last fiasco we were involved in."

"Why do you say that?" James asked with an amused glint lighting his eyes.

"Everything I wanted to know was something that I wasn't allowed to know. All I ever got was 'I can't tell you, Trowa.'"

A barking laugh escaped the older man. "Well, we have our reasons, you know. The more people that know, the worse it is for subterfuge."

"In other words, you're afraid I'll spill the beans and muck up your entire little operation," Trowa huffed with a peevish snort, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Yep."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm not Duo."

A wry grin took James' lips. "Of course you're not. If you were, I wouldn't go through this trouble – I'd just shoot you the moment I'd thought you'd caught onto anything important. You're actually worth something."

"Then why not tell me anything?"

"Because while you wouldn't intentionally 'spill the beans' as you put it, you might subconsciously subvert what I've got going on."

"Oh really."

"Really. What I've got going on is a bit more involved than just making certain blondie is kept alive."

"And you aren't willing to share any of those details?" Trowa muttered, his scowl lightening into a mild frown.

"Not really."

"Something I don't need to know?"

"Exactly."

Leaning back in his chair a bit further, balancing it upon its two back legs, Trowa swung his feet back and forth in the air. "And why are they after you? Quatre's an obstacle, and you…?"

"… know to much."

"That all?"

Silence was Trowa's only answer.

-- 21:09, Yesterday --

"Bye, baby. You take care of yourself, you hear?"

Trowa arched a brow as he walked into the hotel room, his arms cradling his Stater Bros. bag protectively. A slight smirk took his lips as he shook his head.

James laid sprawled on his bed, phone pressed to his ear, fingers entwined in the looping spiral cord that connected the handset to the beige base of the phone. Sighing quietly, he shifted his elbows underneath him, more firmly propping himself up as he crossed his legs at the ankles. "Of course I'm being careful. And no, I haven't had to use the M4 yet. Things haven't gotten that bad." A few moments of silence passed, before he chuckled quietly. "Yes, I brought it with me. I'd never go anywhere without that present you gave me, baby. You know that. And yes, I'll use it to keep myself safe. So stop panicking, will you?"

Trowa arched a brow as he listened to the conversation.

"Love you too. Bye, sweetheart. Kick ass in class, alright? Yeah. Bye."

Chuckling as the other man tossed the handset of the phone back into its cradle, Trowa shook his head. "Who was that?"

Arching a brow, staring as if he'd only just noticed that Trowa existed, James sighed before rolling over to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling of the room, studying its stucco coating. "No one that you need to know about."

"Oh, come on," Trowa persisted, seating himself on the edge of James' bed.

"My girl."

"You have a daughter?" the ex-Gundam pilot gasped in obvious shock.

"No, shit-head! Why is it that you and every other-"

"Then what?" Trowa interrupted. "You mean your significant other?"

"Yeah."

"You're capable of having a girlfriend?" Trowa gasped again.

"I'm damned near ready to rip your jaw off your head."

Smirking, Trowa shook his head. "Got a picture?"

"Why are you suddenly so interested in my personal life?" James snarled.

"Because I didn't think that ruthless bastards like you were capable of having a personal life outside of spying and subterfuge."

Rolling his eyes, James huffed. "Sure, fine." Drawing his wallet out of his back pocket after some well-managed shifts of weight and grunting, he flipped it open. "That's her. Happy?"

Trowa nodded as he looked at the picture, taking in the sight of the rough and tough man who occupied the room with him lounging in a mall photo-booth, holding a young woman perhaps a few years older than himself but definitely more youthful than her suitor with brown hair streaked with blonde highlights and hazel eyes who lounged comfortably in his arms. "She looks happy."

"Certainly hope she is." Snapping the wallet shut without another word, he quickly stuffed it away.

"You don't seem happy that you have her."

"I am," James grumbled quietly.

"Then why don't you show it?"

Glaring once, the pure frigid threat that was held within his eyes' depths easily silencing his inquisitor, James snorted, "Because I don't need anymore trouble on her behalf."

Trowa watched silently as the man stormed out of the room. He moved only after the strong, pungent scent of a burning cigarette began to leak into the room through the open door, swinging the panel of wood only partially closed as to not lock his temporary roommate out in the cold of the night.

-- 09:31 --

Trowa stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Did you see where I tossed my shoes?"

"Do I look like your fucking nursemaid?"

"Never mind. I found them."

James rolled his eyes as he returned his attention to his duffel bag. "Give me your bag, will you? Got to get you packed and ready."

Trowa arched a brow. "Get me packed? Why?"

"We're leaving here tomorrow."

"And you don't think I'm capable of packing myself?"

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, James glared at Trowa with dark hazel eyes. "Listen, kiddo. How many guns did you bring? How much ammunition did you have packed in your bag when you found me at the hotel on L-4? Whatever you have, it isn't going to be enough. You're gonna have more."

"Oh, like I won't have you constantly hovering at my side to cover me?" Trowa asked with a frown, his voice as flippant and mocking as he could force it to be.

"No, you won't. We'll probably be splitting come tomorrow."

Trowa stared. "I can't say that I'm not ecstatic, but this is rather sudden. Why?"

Grabbing Trowa's bag without invitation or care, he dumped its contents out and quickly sorted through them, plucking two pairs of jeans and two turtleneck sweaters from the pile that he'd dumped onto the floor. "Jesus, kid. All you wear are fucking turtlenecks, huh?"

"You're dodging the question."

"No, I'm just making an observation," James grunted as he folded the articles of clothing he'd picked up and stuffed them into the bag. "I was getting to answering your question. As I was about to say," he started, stooping to pick up a couple of balls of rolled up socks, "you're going to be accompanying the kid. Whether or not he knows it. Whatever situation arises, you stick with it. If he knows you're there, stay painfully present by his side. If he doesn't know you're there, then protect him from the shadows and don't let him know you're protecting him, 'cause that could fuck up his concentration. I've got things I need to tie up that have nothing to do with him, and watching his back will do nothing but slow me down."

Arching a brow, Trowa frowned. "I see. So you're leaving Quatre in my hands?"

"Pretty much."

"Entirely?"

"Not entirely. Just mostly. I'll be communicating with him from time to time, but to get what I need to get done completed, I need to be working on my own. After all, James Waverly just doesn't work well with groups, you know." A small, bitter chuckle leaked from his throat as he stuffed underwear and socks into Trowa's bag. "This should be enough for your living provisions. Time to start with the weapons."

"Nothing too big."

"Of course not. I'm keeping the big stuff."

Trowa watched in silence as a Browning Buck Mark 22 (1), E.A.A. Witness DA (2), Kahr Arms K9 (3), Magnum Research One Pro (4), and Phoenix Arms HP 22 (5) were loaded into his duffel bag. Soon those guns were joined by filled clips that corresponded with them, and boxes of additional ammunition worked their ways in as well.

"That should hold you, kid," James grunted as he zipped the bag shut and hefted it onto a strong shoulder. "You should be able to carry this without any problem. Here you are."

Trowa staggered only momentarily under the surprising weight of the bag before easing it comfortably to the floor. "It'll work," he affirmed with a nod. "So, you're going out on your own."

"Of course. As said, I work best alone. On my way to see what I can or can't do to try and avert the mess that's heading our way."

"And you're trusting me with Quatre."

"You'll make it fine, kiddo. Have some faith in yourself."

Arching a brow, Trowa snorted. "Oh really? I'm to take it that you have faith in me, right?"

"In your ability to live a normal life? Fuck no. In your ability to make sure the little Winner brat lives through this fiasco? Yep. I know you can, and you can."

"Sure."

Silence fell between them as James resumed digging through his boxes, apparently looking for something of grand importance to pack away.

As he dug, Trowa let his eyes fall upon James' opened duffel bag. Paling, he stepped away from it.

He suddenly had no interest in knowing the grueling details of what James Waverly was going to do with himself.

Not after seeing the handcuffs, the vials marked 'poison,' the gags, the flails, the chains, and the bullwhip that resided in the canvas bag he would be taking with him on his journey.

-- 12:53 --

"So in the entirety of Cabazon, there's nothing you want?"

"I don't take charity. Especially not from persons such as yourself."

"Oh ho! And I'm to take that as an insult, yes?"

"You can take it however you like."

"I'm liking this change in you, kiddo. You're a lot more talkative than when we last worked together."

"…."

Rolling his eyes, James smirked. "And here we get the all too predictable sudden silent act. Thanks for meeting my expectations."

"Whatever," Trowa snorted, before continuing. "As I was saying, I don't need anything. I've got the equipment I need. I've got enough clothing. I'll buy food on the way. I've got my own credit card, so I don't need nor do I want any tainted cash from you. I'm fine."

"Alright already," James said with a huff. "Then we hit just one more shop."

Trowa arched a brow, staring critically at the store they were about to enter, his eyes absorbing the gaudy colors that hung in the windows and the hula girl mannequins dressed in their bikini tops and grass skirts that sat on either side of the doorway. "A surf shop?"

"Surf's going to be great tomorrow. It's been forever since I've caught a decent wave. Living in space's done nothing but ruin me. They try to simulate it, but no wave pool can ever hope to match the real thing."

Bowing his head, Trowa sighed in resignation as he followed the would-be beach bum into the store.

Nearly two hours passed as James spoke with sale representatives and Trowa stared at his reflection in the smoothly waxed dark blue surface of an exotically painted surfboard, which featured a coiled Chinese dragon erupting from violently roiling curling waves as its signature artwork, its golden countenance a stark contrast to the dark navy water and the swirling pastel blue foam that gave definition to the water the bottom of the board was supposed to portray. Trowa had previously studied the top of the board, finding it disappointingly ordinary being a white field encompassed by a board-tracing blue line, which was likewise surrounded with a thick red ribbon of color.

Emerald eyes blinked in surprise as the small board, which measured barely a few inches over seven feet in length, was suddenly lifted and his gaze bereft of the reflection they'd been perusing for an indeterminate amount of time. Looking up at the store employees that hauled the board away, he arched a brow even as he slowly straightened his legs, his face draining of color as the blood that had stagnated in his veins suddenly flooded his limbs once more, causing him to stagger with the onset of sudden dizziness.

"Plumeria Pro Gun. One of the better boards that are actually available for ready sale and don't take forever to be custom made and molded to the rider," James said with a wink.

"Hmm," Trowa simply observed as he slowly bent at the waist, bowing his head for a few moments to regain his sense of equilibrium before attempting to fully regain his upright posture. "So you're really meaning to go surfing tomorrow instead of meeting up with him."

A mocking, sharp crack of laughter escaped James' lungs. "Kid, if he means for us to all meet up, he'll arrange it. I'm not going to waste time trying to track him down when he's very likely already got something planned."

"You sound confident that we'll meet up."

Glancing over, James winked. "You're damned right I'm confident. He'll meet us. It's just a matter of us being in the right place at the right time."

"And you know that place and time?"

"Fuck no. But I can take a wild stab at it. And very likely I'll be right."

-- 23:44 --

Leaning against the railing that ran outside of the hotel room, James slowly lifted his cigarette to his lips and drew a long breath through it, sucking the hot smoke it provided into his lungs. Holding it there for a few moments, he stared at the stars above before releasing the searing heat that raced along his throat with a slow exhalation. 'Sorry, baby. I swore I'd quit this, didn't I?'

Glancing down at his cigarette, he smirked slightly. 'Another lie I suppose. Not the first I've told. Probably not the last.'

"You going to get to sleep, or should I give you the room key you keep forgetting on the dresser and close the door?"

Peering over his shoulder, he shrugged. "I'll be coming in after this one."

"You said that three cigarettes ago."

"This is the last one in the fucking pack."

Trowa shrugged. "Then I'll leave the door open," he said before turning and returning to the warm, dark sanctuary that was their hotel room. "Just don't make too much racket. I want to get a few hours of sleep before you drag me to the beach," he called even as the rustle of his body slipping underneath the sheets that covered his bed leaked from the blackness that permeated their temporary living quarters.

"Sure thing," James replied as he turned his attention back to the stars. Leaning against the rails once again, he lightly pressed a fingertip to his ear.

The microphone jostled slightly in his ear channel.

"- certain they kno – ing? – aren't walki – to it with knowle – ight?" one voice softly questioned.

"Of course not," the other quickly replied.

"And thi – s viable? He'll act a - anned?"

"He's predi – table like that. No wor – ies."

"Great."

James scowled. 'No worries, eh?'

'And just what do you have to worry about in the first place?'

His thumb slowly turned the power switch on the remote receiver he held in his left hand.

'Just what are you afraid of?'

'What don't you want me to find out?'

_tbc…_

(1) Browning Buck Mark 22: Caliber 22 LR; Capacity 10 rounds; Barrel Length 5.5"; Weight 32 ounces; Grips Black molded plastic (plus has laminated wood grips); Sights Adjustable rear, ramp front; Price $265 (blue (used in fic)), $312 (nickel), $324 (Buck Mark Plus)

(2) E.A.A. Witness DA: Caliber 38 Super, 9mm (used in fic), 40 S&W or 45 ACP; Capacity 10 rounds; Barrel Length 4.5"; Weight 35 ounces; Grips Checkered rubber; Sights Adjustable rear, undercut blade front; Misc Compact models available, blue or chrome finishes available; Price $351 to $366

(3) Kahr Arms K9: Caliber 9mm Para; Capacity 7 rounds; Barrel Length 3.5"; Weight 25 ounces; Grips Wraparound, textured soft polymer; Sights Blade front, rear drift adjustable bar-dot combat style; Misc Double action only, matte black finish, all steel (used in fic), also available in nickel with wood grips; Price $538 to $836 (Duo-Tone with tritium night sights)

(4) Magnum Research One Pro: Caliber 45 ACP (used in fic) or 400 Cor-Bon; Capacity 10 rounds; Barrel Length 3.75"; Weight 31 ounces; Grips Textured plastic; Sights Fixed; Price $209 (400 Cor-Bon non-compensated) to $249

(5) Phoenix Arms HP 22: Caliber 22 LR (HP 22); Capacity 10 rounds; Barrel Length 3"; Weight 20 ounces; Grips Checkered composition; Sights; Adjustable rear, blade front; Misc Available in satin nickel or polished blue finish; Price $116


	7. Chapter VII

Ye holy smokes! I take a break to rip wires out of my Triumph, arrange to have a new axle pressed for it and set up an appointment to get a hitch slapped onto my Subaru, and I find a review in my inbox. Wow, I feel loved! (ubergush)

Reply time:

Yurikitsune! I'm glad you read this, and reviewed! I'm so happy. :) And to answer your questions (now that I've finished flushing madly over your praise)… I'm actually a supreme Wufei fan-girl, who's taken it upon herself to learn every aspect of him and his supremely let's-kick-Zero's-worthless-arse-across-space suit. In fact, I've been dubbed his geisha for sticking up for him so astutely on some mailing lists I was once on. (laughs) However, seeing as how 'Once' and 'Mellon Collie' are attempting madly to remain 100 in timeline, he just _can't_ show up. 'Once' took place entirely in the deserts of Arabia after Heero's self-destruction attempt – Wufei was pouting in China. And 'Mellon Collie' is taking place while he's flailing about trying to find his definition of himself, right before he tosses himself on the feet of Mariemeia (lousy brat child! Killkillkillkillkill). BTW, if anyone out there's a Mariemeia fanwanker, leave me alone. I don't like the kid. (shrug) Reminds me of too many insolent twerps I once had the misfortune of babysitting back in my tender years. :P

Pandora-chan: Riling people up is my specialty. (laughs) Here! This should be the beginning of a long and glorious Quatre-fix. Bring on the blonde! (rings nearby gong) And as for the guns, they're cool. I play with 'em. Don't own 'em – wish I did, but I can't afford squat. Plus the military wouldn't ever sell me a 50 mm. Those're AWESOME! (drools, remembering practice shots off the fantail) Girls are allowed to like guns, darn it! Call this my outlet for all the weapons I wish I could own. (cuddles her Guns and Ammo mags, which always earn her strange looks and mutters from her friends)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Nothing here ever last  
nothing but memories  
of what never was _

_Jellybelly_

-- 15:45 --

"Take care, kids."

"Of course, Mr. Waverly! You can count on me. And on Trowa."

Arms crossed over his bare chest, James sighed as he stared at the pair standing before him being bathed by the light of the barely crested sun while they stood in the center of the large parking lot that sat adjacent to the walkway leading to the Santa Monica pier.

One leaned casually against the Bentley Arnage R, well-toned arms crossed over a florescent green t-shirt clad chest and white jean-coated legs crossed at their boot-covered ankles. Casually lifting one hand to reveal the print across his chest that read "Santa Monica, CA" and displayed behind said text an artistic rendition of the picturesque beach, complete with palm trees and a glorious setting sun framed by blue skies and waves, he pushed the black plastic frames of his mirrored sunglasses further up on the bridge of his sharply sloped nose before dragging his thin, long fingers through long, sweat-dampened, limp russet bangs in a desperate but futile attempt to fluff them and gather them away from his heavily sunburned cheeks.

The other young man stood before James Waverly with his hands firmly planted in his dark, baggy denim jean-shorts' pockets, leaving the black decal of his white 'Nike' t-shirt visible to be easily seen. One oversized waffle-soled Sketcher tennis shoe casually kicked at the gravel upon which he stood, the other remaining firmly planted in order for him to keep his balance. Bright blue eyes shined from under glistening golden hair which poked out from under his backwards black 'Nike' ball-cap, keeping their gaze fixated on the older, taller man who stood with them before the classic, exotic vehicle.

Another friendly smile lit the face of the blonde boy. "After all, we've made it this far. And Trowa has already proved his competence with his assisting you to stop the assassination attempt on my person at the spaceport on L-4. I believe he and I will be able to weather this time together without your direct assistance."

"Saying you don't need me around, kid?" James asked with a snide grin, letting his crossed arms drop and his stance ease. "Then I'll be taking my leave of you and these plots that whirl about your head."

"Oh, please don't leave! I'm not saying that you aren't needed. Not at all. I'm saying that it's not necessary for you to remain with us, and in fact might actually be rather detrimental to any sort of plan which I might be able to procure. We'll cover things on my end of the spectrum – you just concentrate on what's going on in your end, Mr. Waverly. After all, I wouldn't want you dead on account of paying more attention to my problems rather than your own situation."

"Heh. Meaning?"

"You're an intelligent man, Mr. Waverly," the blonde said with a wink, "so I'm certain you're capable of gathering the meaning in my statements. I'm being as obvious as I possibly can."

"In other words, watch my back because they're after me too."

"Precisely. Trowa will watch mine as you intended him to do – you concentrate on your own life and your own well being. Remember at all times that I'm not the only person who's targeted."

"I'll make certain to keep that in mind. And what about your happy little friends up in space? Certainly they'll eventually be dragged into this."

Sighing quietly, the blonde lifted thin, pale fingers free of his jean-shorts' pockets to scratch his chin thoughtfully. "They haven't been sited yet. As far as I've been able to discern, they will be contacted concerning this, but I'm the only one slated for death. If we move quickly enough, we can keep them from being involved. It's rather disappointing that one of them already had to be dragged into this fiasco, but such couldn't be avoided I suppose."

"Not if you want to remain alive, kid."

"I gathered that. After all, excluding their obvious interest in you survivors and keeping this in reference solely with the Gundam pilots, they're directing all of their forces against me instead of dividing them amongst the five of us."

"Wonder why," the hazel-eyed man muttered, a frown taking his thin, enigmatic lips.

"No idea. Might have something to do with my role with the new governmental structure that's being evolved due to the efforts of Ms. Relena and myself, but I can't be certain about that. It's unsupported hypothesis, is all. So until we find any sort of evidence that points to my hypothesis being correct, we're left in the dark. Still a mystery. That's something we'll have to figure out, isn't it?"

"Hint taken," James grunted with a nod.

"Been a pleasure seeing you again, James. Don't be such a stranger, OK? I miss hearing from you on a regular basis, you know."

With a bark of laughter, the older man shook his head. "Kid, if I had the choice I'd never lay eyes on your scrawny little hide again."

"Oh! Why are you so mean?" the blonde boy pouted cutely, his bottom lip thrust out and his brows knitted over suddenly tear-shined eyes.

"Because every time I meet up with you, I'm riding a wave of trouble that's wanting to see me dead."

"Alright, good retort. I'll take that excuse," James' fellow conversationalist said with a chipper giggle and a wink.

"Fucking damned right you'll take that excuse, kid. You're not getting another one," James said with a chortle. "Anyway, it's about time for me to be heading out of here. If we stick around too long, they'll figure out that you're already here and turn their attention away from the spaceports. That is, if they don't already have me pegged for observation and have already seen that you're not where you're expected to be. According to all records, you're supposed to be arriving, not already present. Best to move before they find out what's up."

"You're saying they're already awaiting my arrival."

"Sure as my Father's dead they're awaiting your arrival."

"You're sure about that?"

"Caught the cross-talk yesterday, kid."

A small laugh escaped the boy. "I mean about your father."

James smirked. "Killed him myself."

The large blue eyes blinked once in surprise. "Ah ha ha ha… forgot you're that kind of person. Got'cha. Then I'll talk to you later. Contact me as soon as it's safe. You've got my cell phone number."

"Cell phone's crap. I'll contact you over your satellite."

"Acknowledged."

"Keep yourself safe, kid. I'll contact you within the week."

"You watch yourself, James. And ditch that Celica as soon as you can – it's very likely already being traced."

The hazel-eyed man snorted. "You should be one to talk, driving around in a fucking Bentley with a god damned chauffeur. Try something a little less conspicuous."

"I'll leave that up to Trowa," the blonde said with a grin.

"Fine. Just keep yourself safe."

"Ditto."

Nodding to one another, the trio split ways; the two young teenagers clambered into the back of the Bentley and James hefted his surfboard under his left arm. Turning to make his way to the Toyota Celica he'd rented for the sole purpose of hauling his board to the beach, he glanced over his shoulder to watch the chauffeur slowly and carefully take the expensive vehicle out of the overloaded parking lot and onto the busy street known as the PCH - Pacific Coast Highway – or simply as 'the 1'.

He strapped his board carefully to the top of the vehicle, sighing quietly. 'At least it was fun while it lasted.'

'Time to ditch the car and the board. At least the 1's got some good, vicious cliffs. An accident will be easy to arrange.'

-- 08:02 --

Trowa glanced back towards the car. "Aren't you going to take your surfboard?" he quietly questioned, gesturing with the slightest tilt of his head towards the silver Toyota Celica his partner had rented that still had the cooler they'd stocked that morning sitting in the trunk and the surfboard they'd bought at the giant outdoors mall outside of the city of Barstow yesterday strapped to the roof.

"Later," James said with a smirk as he kicked his feet more firmly into his flimsy black flip-flops. "First thing's first – we hit the boardwalk. I've got money burning a hole in my pocket and a desire to spend it on crappy merchandise and oily, deep-fat-fried food. Might as well get some sun and some time in the presence of our fellow beach-bums before hitting the waves, yes?"

"If you say so," Trowa said with a sigh, shielding his eyes with his thin hand against the bright, intruding light of the morning sun. "Sure is bright out here," he softly commented, more making note of the discomfort he was feeling to himself than complaining to his companion.

"You should have brought sunglasses," James sniggered as he pushed his own black frames with their mirrored blue lenses onto his face, shielding his eyes from the bright white rays that poured from the heavens. Quickly gathering the long brown hair that spilled down his body to reach its longest tendrils towards the bottom of his shoulder blades into a single bundle at the base of his neck he wrapped a hair tie into it, effectively constraining it in a long, loose ponytail that draped down his bare back. Stretching, groaning delightedly as his joints and bones cracked, he sighed. "A day in the sun without any worries in the world – it's almost enough to make a person believe that the memories of our recent 'peace' are something that are actually tangible."

"You mean the peace that never had a chance of lasting?" Trowa asked, glancing enviously at his partner, noting that the large, baggy orange shorts that doubled as swim trunks James wore looked a few thousand times more comfortable than the white jeans he wore would be in a few hours given the already impending heat that radiated onto the coastline.

"I mean the peace that never was," James clarified even as he began to slather the first of many coats of sunscreen onto his already darkly tanned body, taking care to get his cheeks and his nose as he began to walk towards the beach, weaving through the cars that filled the parking lot.

"We've had peace," Trowa said with a frown, doggedly following at James' heels as they made their way through the gathered vehicles. Swinging to his right, he narrowly avoided running into the breaker wall that ran along the edge of the parking lot to separate it from the sands of the beaches and keep them from filling the spaces reserved for the vehicles driven by tourists, merchants and regular visitors.

"Negative, kid. We've had the illusion of peace. The illusion which will stop living, once people figured out that it is in no way real."

"I see. So you're saying our battles resulted in nothing but an illusion?" Trowa asked as he sidestepped a roller-bladder that roared down the asphalt road that lead towards the boardwalk of Santa Monica.

"Yep. It's nothing but an illusion because nobody won it for his or herself. They just stood back and let others win it for them, so there's no way that this peace could ever be considered real. Just wait – it'll topple and fall soon enough, crumbling before the eyes of the peoples of this Earth Sphere like stale cookies stomped on by five-year-old children. Because nothing on this Earth Sphere ever last. Nothing but the memories of what never really was."

"Too deep for me, James."

"Figured as much."

-- 10:23 --

Trowa tugged at his turtleneck sweater. "I'm starting to see the validity of your argument," he randomly commented, slumping sadly along behind James.

Glancing over his shoulder, the older man snickered victoriously, his lips turned in a triumphant sneer that screamed 'I told you so.' "I can swear that I'd informed you that you'd want something short sleeved. Let's get you something at one of the t-shirt huts, yes?"

"Sounds great by me."

The pair quickly made their way to one of the multitudes of stands that littered the boardwalk. Diving into the small shop and out of the heating rays of the sun, Trowa panted for breath. Basking in the shade that the stand's awning provided, the long-banged ex-pilot took a few precious moments to pull his sweater away from his sticky body, letting the cool air driven through the small store by its solitary fan sweep up his abdomen and chest to dance along his sweat-dampened flesh like icy, soothing fingers. Letting his shirt drop, he stared at the gathering of folding tables that filled the small shop, blinking slowly to clear the stinging curtain of sweat from his eyes as to see more clearly. "Large selection," he muttered.

"Just pick something up, kid," James huffed, even as he pulled his tube of sunscreen from one of the multitudes of pockets his baggy orange shorts held and began to slather the creamy white substance across his darkly tanned shoulders and down his heavily-muscled chest.

Nodding once, Trowa too but a moment to glare enviously at the tube of cream which was providing salvation from the burning touch of the sun that his companion held, wishing deeply that he'd had such a wondrous substance for himself to save his cheeks, hands and ears from the bright baking rays outside before he wandered to the table marked by a sheet of paper and a marker-scrawl 'L' which apparently held the larger t-shirts he'd want. Glancing over the selection, he frowned. 'I Survived the Big One,' 'I Love California,' 'Certified Tourist,' 'Doomed,' 'Fear Me for I Have the Power to Destroy You,' 'Beach Bum,' and other assorted logos assaulted his eyes, making it impossible for him to make a selection. "Too many to choose from," he groaned in dismay.

A frustrated roll of hazel eyes and a snort later, James casually lobbed a florescent green t-shirt at Trowa's head.

Catching the tossed article of clothing, Trowa arched a brow. Across the front of the shirt was an iron-on decal portraying the beach framed by palm trees and featuring a setting sun sinking into vivid blue waves and falling from an equally blue sky, overlaid by large white script lettering reading 'Santa Monica, CA.' Shrugging once, he walked to the counter, pulling his thick black leather wallet from his tight jeans' back pocket. "Florescent green?" he questioned once as he glanced over his shoulder even as he simultaneously handed his credit card over to the clerk that ran the register at the small shop's counter.

"You couldn't make up your fucking mind. Live with it."

"Fine by me," Trowa said with a shrug. "If nothing else I can pass it off on Cathy as a souvenir."

Making his way quickly to a restroom building stationed along the boardwalk with his plastic bag which read 'Thank You!' in rainbow colors down its sides and contained his precious short-sleeved t-shirt which would, he was convinced, be all that saved him from the onset of heatstroke in hand, Trowa quickly ducked inside to change. A few passed minutes saw him emerging, his well-toned arms freed from fabric restraint and his florescent green shirt hanging loosely over his jeans. Walking over to his partner, hands in pockets, sweater rolled and held in the crook of his left arm and shirt bunched around his wrists, he nodded. "Much cooler," he said with a small sigh of relief.

"Damn, kid. You need to get some sun," was the only statement that escaped James Waverly's lips as he turned and made his way back out towards the giant parking lot that accompanied the pier that dominated the beach they occupied.

"Where are we going now?"

"To toss that turtleneck sweater of yours in the car. And to fetch my board. The waves are finally rolling in and I want to hit that beach."

"Fine by me."

Trotting along after James, hands still in pocket and sweater still held tightly under his arm, he joined in the desperate search for the nondescript silver Toyota they'd rented.

Nearly thirty minutes passed before they located the vehicle and thus began their march back towards the beach, cooler held between the two of them, blankets under Trowa's left arm, a spare pair of sunglasses on Trowa's face to protect his emerald eyes from the intense light of the sun, surfboard under James' right arm, shoes scrunching on the hot pavement and sand.

After finding a good empty spot on the beach that wasn't too overly littered with rocks and was a livable distance away from the water and thus incurred no risk of being soaked by the incoming crashing waves, they set down their cooler and dropped the blankets. Immediately, Trowa began the task of tossing errant rocks aside and rolling out the blankets, staring at the design of the first he unrolled before shaking his head and pulling it straight.

Smoothing out the second gaudily colored blanket on the sand, glaring at the horrid combination of yellow and red stripes littered with green polka-dots that made up its pattern, Trowa shook his head. "Whoever designed these things ought to be dragged out into the street and shot," he commented.

When naught but the ambling conversations of those who were around him met his ear, he turned sharply to look for the man who was supposed to be accompanying him.

Trowa's eyes narrowed behind the protective plastic sheets that were the lenses of his borrowed sunglasses when he noted the presence of his companion diving into the water that was a good fifty feet down the sand from the small 'camp' location, whooping with delight as he swam out into the viciously cold water on his surfboard.

Shaking his head, Trowa opted to seat himself on the brightly colored towel, leaving the one with the naked mermaid sprawled on a cartoon-portrayal of a beach for the surfer for when he returned. Cracking open the lid of the cooler, he rooted through its contents, desperately seeking for the familiar feel of a Coke can amongst the veritable sea of ice and Budweiser bottles. Finally coming across what he sought, he lifted the can free of the chilled water and popped its top.

Lifting it to his lips, he leaned back and basked in the sun as he sipped his Coke, eyes closed as he lounged, finding the outcome of the day almost pleasant.

-- 13:16 --

The more Trowa watched, the more he had to admit that James was a much better surfer than he'd first judged him to be.

He'd been out on the particularly vicious waves driven by the offshore storm for nearly three hours, and had only spilled twice. One of those falls had been quite nasty, resulting in Trowa getting to witness the spectacular spectacle of watching a board fly nearly six feet over the crest of the tallest waves visible in one direction and its rider flounder as if in slow motion through the air in the entirely opposite vector. That alone had been enough to bring a wild laugh of appreciation to Trowa's lips, a gesture that had not been repeated since Heero had brought it forth from the pit of his gut with his lame jest concerning piloting and self-destructing.

Nodding as James made his way in once more, jumping off of the board as it was mercilessly slammed onto the sandy beach by the wickedly rolling waves and tugging at his board-leash to draw it out of the water before it could be dragged back out to sea by the strong undertow the west coast waves always brought with them, Trowa lifted his ninth can of soda to his lips to drain what liquid remained in it and add it to his growing collection of half-buried cans that spiraled in a decorative swirl beside his gaudy blanket.

He blinked as he heard applause next to him. Turning his head, he arched a brow as he drew his sunglasses down from the top of the bridge of his nose to correctly discern the coloration of the person who stood next to his procured cooler and his comfortable spot.

Trowa stared.

Grinning, the young man beside him nodded. "You should really have worn some sunscreen, Trowa. You're as red as a lobster."

"Quatre…!"

With a giggle erupting from his lips, the small blonde nodded. "Nice to see you too." Reaching down, he gently laid a fingertip underneath Trowa's chin and pushed it up, closing his mouth for him.

As Trowa stared in complete shock, James marched to the cooler and tossed its lid open even as he planted his board nose down in the sand. Plucking an ice-cold beer out of the sea of frigid water, he popped the top off and flicked it carelessly out onto the sand. After taking a long draught of the bitter liquor, he smirked. "Fancy meeting you here."

Arching a brow, Quatre mimicked James' smirk and laughed. "You chose the right spot."

"Go figure. Or did you discern that this is where I was going to be?"

"Got it right, Mr. Waverly. With the offshore storm and the predictions for high surf near Santa Monica, I figured that this is where you'd be most likely to show up."

"How'd your flight go, kid?"

"Just fine, thanks to you and Trowa. Thanks much for the save, by the way."

James' eye twitched slightly. "I'd still like to know how you figured it out."

Arching a brow innocently, Quatre clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth in his oversized Sketchers. "Figured what out?"

"That it was me involved with that."

A small laugh escaped the blonde. "Simple. I caught wind of an accident concerning a postal worker. I know that the gentleman who drives that route daily could do such in his sleep and never would have an accident, especially with the roads in as perfect of condition as they were. It would take a blizzard to throw him off course. And the news that he'd driven right off the dune cliffs made me suspicious. When I'd found out that some of the letters from his van were recovered, that drew my attention even more. And when I'd discovered that my letter was one of the ones from that truck that had been delivered…."

"Don't tell me that's all you used to figure me out," James said with an arched brow before taking another pull from his bottle.

"No. But I figured that someone was after some sort of information that the truck was holding. The fact that my letter was one of the letters to survive its destruction made me think that it might have had something to do with my person. After all, what survived was the bag of letters that had come from the Winner Estate."

"Very true."

"Very sloppy on your part, Mr. Waverly. You left evidence sitting right out where anyone with an observant eye could see it."

Shaking his head, James sighed. "Didn't realize I was being sloppy there. You're probably the only one to figure it out."

"Very likely," Quatre said with a modest shrug. "But to finish up my observations, seeing you in the office, discovering that my letter and my mail had mystically spilled from the delivery truck that went off the cliffs but a few miles removed from my home, hearing about the death of Mr. Malachi…."

"That has nothing to do with you."

"Of course not!" Quatre exclaimed, blinking. "But his office is perfectly positioned to peer into mine. And I'm almost convinced that him being involved in the lawsuit against Narington Inc. had something to do with it, but I'm doubting that you'll tell me what the true motivation there was."

Shaking his head, James snorted. "Ain't telling you anything about that one, kid. You're going to have to find another source for it."

"I expected as much," the blonde said with a carefree shrug, "and that's why I'm not going to harp on it. I'll just take it for the time being that it was a perfect observation post. But hearing about Mr. Malachi's death, then discovering that my office was bugged, and seeing a Harley Davidson motorcycle perched atop the dunes that overlook the valley that houses the spaceport on L-4 made everything click in my mind. I was being observed, primarily by you – I recall your tastes for Harley bikes." A smirk smoothly flowed across the boy's lips, even as James nodded to encourage him to continue. Clearing his throat, Quatre nodded once more and quietly continued, "And as has been made painfully obvious to my person, I've been targeted ever since taking my role in the peace negotiations that have come into being since the termination of the Eve Wars and the installation of the Earth Sphere United Nation government. So, putting two and two together and coming up with five, I determined that you were going to be staving off whatever attacks were going to come my way. And as determined by the amount of scrutiny I was under, I figured that there was very likely going to be an assassination attempt on my person. You were very likely going to stop that – namely because either you care for me-"

James scoffed.

"Exactly. Or you realized that my death at that moment in time wouldn't coincide with any dream for the successful realization of the plan."

Staring, James let his beer nearly slide from his hand, barely remembering to tighten his grip upon it as the neck threatened to leave the restrictive ring of his fingertips. "How the hell do you know anything about the plan?"

Smirking, the blonde shrugged. "My little secret."

"Damn you," James growled softly, "how many contacts do you have out there?"

"That's for me to know and you to never find out. I'll not be putting anybody's life in danger by revealing them to you."

"Not at this stage in the game?"

"Precisely."

Trowa just looked from one to the other, completely confused and lost.

19:40 –

The blazing fireball lit the early evening sky, illuminating the soft navy blue that had begun to touch the space between the clouds and brightly coloring the sandy cliffs and rocks. Another loud explosion rocketed off the cliff-sides, muffled by the dull roar of the crashing waves lapping against the tiny stretch of thin beach that snaked as a protective barrier between the tall cascading cliffs and the mighty ocean. The dry grass that dared to live upon the craggy rocks and in the cracks of the poorly paved highway crackled with the intense heat that simmered from the bright flames that sputtered and flared upon the ragged rocks that jutted from the lapping water below. The sizzle of slag dripping into the cold ocean water hissed along with the fire's loud growls, screaming of the utter destruction that laid upon the rocks and the slender beach far below the line of sight that was available from the straggling highway.

James frowned, shielding his eyes as yet another bright flash lit the early evening. 'That fire ought to rage for a few hours. And considering how remote this location is, the 'accident' won't be discovered for nearly a day. All evidence will be destroyed. They'll probably conclude that anything that could have remained of the driver was incinerated in that mess. I'm in the clear.'

'I'm in the clear, but I'm also in the middle of nowhere.' A frown touched his lips as he shook his head. 'Damn near forty miles out of Santa Barbara. Might be able to get a rental car there, then head off to Fresno to follow up on those merry little tidbits of information I was able to snag from my dear old buddy.'

'Looks like I've got a damned long walk ahead of me.'

A soft sigh escaped James' lips as he hiked his collar up around his neck to protect him from the cold he knew would soon be coming. Lifting his heavy duffel bag to his shoulder, he jostled it a couple of times to get accustomed to its surprisingly extraordinary weight on his frame before picking up his equally heavy suitcase in his left hand and a slightly lighter briefcase in his right. Setting a determined gaze upon the road that laid before him, he made his way to its edge and began to walk, steadily headed north.

Nearly an hour had passed before the artificial light cast by a vehicle's headlamps illuminated the road before the walking man. Stepping to the side of the road, he gestured with his thumb to the road directly before him, pointing north.

He sighed with relief as the old truck pulled over.

Glancing in, he cast his most friendly smile at the young lady that sat behind the wheel. "I was dropped off a bit back. I'm trying to get back to Santa Barbara. Think I could get a lift?"

Arching a brow, the young girl smirked. "You pay for gas, I'll drive you to Santa Barbara no problem. Just remember, Mister, that I've got a tire iron right where I can reach it."

Laughing as he tossed his luggage into the back of the truck and pulled open the stubborn, rusted passenger door, he slid onto the torn, age-stiffened vinyl bench and pulled the old, tattered seatbelt across his lap. "No worries there. My girl would never speak to me again if I were to even think about doing anything with another woman, anyway."

"So, what's your name, Mister?"

"James."

"Nice to meet you. Name's Lyssa."

_tbc..._


	8. Chapter VIII

This editing crap gets on my nerves with this story. Why'd I have to make it so damned long? (desperate sobs, followed by a shrug) Ah well. Dug my own grave, I suppose. (sheepish grin)

Review replies:

Yurikitsune: (laughs outright) Yes! More people that can't stand the evil little child! And I couldn't help the fluorescent green shirt. I own one like that. It's terrible (especially on a girl with a naturally olive-toned complexion; blame it on all that Mediteranean heritage I have, damn it), and it's funny, and it's just the thing James would throw at Trowa's head as he's an ass. Thank you for the compliment on the clothing! It's sometimes hard coming up with, and I'm glad that Quatre's ubercasual wear is liked. And thank you for your glowing compliments on Quatre's personality. (blush) It's sometimes difficult harnessing him and turning him into a more palatable, plausible person than the original story-writers did (sorry, but Quatre didn't strike me as very 'deep' in the anime. Of course, though, Heero _was_ the focal point after all…). Comments like yours that review a chapter in detail make the excruciating experience of editing every blasted chapter of this story and pounding my head against my pretty iMac's monitor while trying to beat another chapter out of my flailing imagination worth it! Chapter 21 will get posted after I finish editing chapters 9-20, so unfortunately it may not get posted until after I come back from our Med cruise some time early next year. (sniff) Sorry 'bout that. But the rest of August and the first week of September should see some hefty posting from me in an attempt to get stuff up before we depart. For the sake of your sanity, here's yet another chapter! (rings gong)

A/N: Once again, quick ref; 180 days is approximately 6 months. For those too lazy to do math.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_And our lives are forever changed  
we will never be the same  
the more you change the less you feel  
believe, believe in me, believe_

_Tonight, Tonight_

-- 18:35 --

Trowa leaned back in the plush chair he was situated in, part of his mind enjoying the comfort of the new environment he'd recently been placed in.

The hotel room he was roomed in at the moment was the most luxurious accommodation he'd been able to enjoy of late, the only competition for its grandeur being the Winner manor in the deserts he'd resided in nary a half year ago and the Star Regent Hotel room he'd shared with Quatre preceding the strike against the New Edwards base that had resulted in the slaughter of General Noventa and his peace-minded compatriots. He was seated in an overstuffed high-backed executive chair facing a pine table, his back to a beige wall and a huge bay window allowing the sun's gentle light to filter into the room situated upon his left. Across from him sat a similar chair, occupied at the moment by the blonde multi-billionaire heir to the Winner family dynasty. Off to Trowa's right rested a huge California King-sized water bed, its sheets expertly flattened and tucked to be wrinkle free yet soft and inviting to the eye's perception. Beyond that bed resided a nightstand with a phone and an alarm clock and a large folding rack which currently housed an open suitcase on its top and a Trowa's duffel bag underneath it. At the grand bed's foot was a seven-drawer dresser, upon which sat a huge television set of nearly 30" size that currently was off, black screen reflecting the image of the huge room before it. Beside the television was an enormous mirror, the lights that graced its top edge off at the moment. Continuing past the dresser to its left the eyes found the fully loaded mini bar and refrigerator with its accompanying microwave, and beyond that was the door that lead to the spacious bathroom. Eyes catching his reflection in the mirrored door to the closet that took nearly the entire wall directly across the room from the window, Trowa self-consciously brushed his bangs back before returning his attention to the table that sat between his chair and his partner's.

The other part of his brain, that which was not thoroughly engrossed with taking in the spectacle of the room he and Quatre were sharing for the time being, was banging its imagined head upon an imagined brick wall.

'Here it is, six months from that time of troubles, and I find myself in such a similar situation,' he mused silently as his emerald eyes narrowed and slender fingers scratched his chin.

'Yet again, it's a time of trouble. For him, for me, for our companions; James made that clear in the conversation he had with him before we departed the beach. And once again, it's Quatre who seems to be running the show, dragging us along without knowledge or apparent reason.'

'Once again, it's me tangled into whatever mad schemes are unfolding around him. Entirely against my will.'

'Ah, who am I lying to? It's of my own free will that I'm here. James told me that Quatre was in danger, and I ran right into the flames without even truly pressing him as to find out what is truly going on.'

'Let's face it. I'm in this of my own accord. In it again, without a clue as to what's happening. And once again I'm sitting here trying to figure out what's going on by watching what he's doing.'

"Heavy thoughts, Trowa?"

Blinking a few times, Trowa lifted his gaze away from the table. His face remaining its enigmatic mask, he nodded once.

"Take your time," Quatre said with a smile as he leaned back in his chair, his piercing sea-blue eyes dark with purpose as they stared at the same tabletop that had captured Trowa's attention.

Nodding again in reply to the blonde's request, Trowa rested his elbows upon the table's hard wooden surface and folded his hands together. Plopping his chin down upon the ball of his clenched fists, he narrowed his dark green eyes a bit further with concentration.

'Once again, I'm in a time of troubles.'

'And once again, my only clue as to what's going on is resting on a chess board.'

'Damn, I wish I'd bothered to really learn how to play this game.'

-- 08:12, 191 Days Ago --

Trowa watched as Quatre calmly castled his king and his rook.

Trowa responded by bringing his bishop forward into play. Glancing at the boy's face, he fought the urge to frown.

Quatre's smiling face led to absolutely no hints about his moves.

Still, it was a fairly even game.

"You've played chess often?" Trowa ventured.

"Hai, very often. I love this game."

"It's a little too foreign for me. I can't relate with it," Trowa muttered, moving another pawn.

Quatre nearly jumped on his own pawn, making Trowa immediately regret his move. "It's easy to relate to."

"How so?"

"I don't know. I just relate to it easily. Chess is… it's like life. It helps me think, helps me strategize. It's like I can take all the plans in my head that relate to life and test them on the board to see if they work."

"You strategize using a Chess board?"

"Hai. And it usually works very well. Chess… it's very insightful. It replicates real life so very well… all the unpredictable pitfalls… all the plotting that's required to reach your goal…"

Trowa let the slightest hint of a smile reach his eyes.

-- 22:53, 191 Days Ago --

Trowa still stared at the door.

Thoughts raging in his mind, he narrowed his eyes, attempting to analyze everything his brain was feeding him.

'Lesley, Johnson, Waverly and Browens. All are officers of OZ. All were located at that base. Browens is dead. The other three are apparently alive.'

'Quatre is connected to these people.'

'How?'

Shaking his head, the acrobat made his way back over to the chessboard to stare at the intricately carved pieces, studying the final moves that had secured the blond boy victory.

'I lost because I moved my queen.'

'It was almost as if he could read my mind and react to what was happening.'

Shaking his head, Trowa wandered to one of the other boards and looked down upon the pieces.

He found his jaw unhinging from the rest of his face, dragging his eyes wide open as it did so.

Rather than the typical set of pieces found upon a typical chess board, this one sported an entirely different figurine collection, each piece's true identity recognized only by the letter emblazoned upon the bottom of it as Trowa discovered in his critiques of the craftsmanship of the statuettes.

OZ soldiers - pawns.

OZ mobile suits - knights, rooks, bishops.

OZ communication-tower and supporting troops - queen.

OZ commanding-base - king.

Rubbing his eyes, he stared once again, allowing his senses to tell him that his mind was indeed not playing tricks with him.

The pawns were carved as little gatherings of multitudes of soldiers.

The mobile suits were gatherings of ten.

The communication tower was tall and straight, an exact replica of what sprang from the forests Trowa had last seen before awakening in the Winner manor, and surrounded with uncounted mobile suits and soldiers.

The squat building he'd infiltrated was correct to the smallest possible detail.

And the opposing pieces:

Sandrock the rook.

Deathscythe the rook.

Quatre the queen.

Trowa the…

Trowa, the newest addition.

The pawn.

Trowa swallowed the lump that had risen to block his airway.

-- 10:19, 183 Days Ago --

Trowa frowned, following James into the chess room.

"See these boards, Barton? Know what they're used for?"

"Quatre uses them to strategize."

"Correct. So, what do you suspect he's doing?"

Trowa sighed, shaking his head. "I've been trying to figure that out for the last few days. I've yet to make any headway."

"You're looking at each board individually, aren't you?"

Trowa arched a brow, looking with curiosity at the older man.

Groaning, James rolled his eyes. "Moron. You fell for it."

"Fell for it?"

"He's hiding his true strategy right before your eyes. And you fucking fell for the simple little ploy he used to cover it up. Fuck. Well, at least that gives me some comfort. If you don't see it, that means that Chad the mime and Xavier the idiot have yet to see it, either."

"Show me what you're talking about."

"Alright, fine," James quietly sighed, taking him to one of the boards. "See this queen?"

'That's the queen that used to be on the board on the right! Why did he move it here?' Trowa nodded as he silently mused.

"Do you see anything threatening this queen?"

"No. It seems completely unguarded."

"It's not. In fact, it's about to be captured."

"Where do you see that move?"

"Over here." Grabbing Trowa's arm, he dragged him to the board on the right, which sported the rook James had placed when Trowa had been monitoring the room earlier.

Trowa's eyes widened. "The bishop can capture the queen, as can the rook and that knight, if you were…"

"Connecting the boards."

With a smirk, James shrugged. "That kid uses chess to strategize, right? Well, think about it this way, Trowa. No bit of life is so simple that you can set it on sixty-four squares. However, with two hundred and fifty-six different squares and endless patterns thanks to the sixty-four square neutral ground over yonder, anything can happen. THIS is what mimics life so perfectly, Trowa. This is what he uses to plan his moves, his life, his strategies, and win."

-- 12:24, 183 Days Ago --

Trowa sighed, shaking his head.

He recognized this strategy as well.

Quatre did seem to take quite a liking to sacrificing his more powerful pieces, keeping those unexpected to be played into power later in the game. If one piece could save five, so be it.

He played the game of odds.

He was sacrificing one piece to save the rest.

-- 17:41 --

"So, care to explain what's going on?" Trowa ventured to ask between bites of his McDonald's Big Mac.

Arching a brow as he sucked on his vanilla shake, the blonde's lips turned with the slightest of grins. Putting the plastic-coated cardboard glass down, Quatre shook his head. "What is there to explain that you don't already know?"

"Just what's going on."

"As you've seen, people are after my life," Quatre calmly quipped as he unwrapped his hamburger and leaned back in the cushioned comfort of his overstuffed, almost overly glamorous hotel room chair.

"Why?"

"That I don't rightly know."

"You do. You're just not telling me," Trowa stated blandly before taking another bite and chewing.

"And you want me to tell you everything I know?" Quatre asked, arching a brow, his blue eyes losing their playful glint and settling into the dark, dull simmer of seriousness.

"Yes. I think it would be best if I knew what was happening."

"However, knowledge is the one vice to the scheme of things."

"Really." Feeling his eyes narrow slightly, Trowa finished off his sandwich and picked up his carton of fries.

"Yes. To have knowledge of all that's happening is to begin to make side plans that may deviate from the direction of the path we're already taking. Things have been carefully orchestrated thus far."

"Carefully orchestrated? So this was meant to happen."

"No. Everything's already derailing. James came across too much information, and has incorporated you. I think he's attempting to compensate for what he's already found and is thusly instigating his own operatives and plots, but he's interfering with my own. Doesn't make me overly happy, but I'll simply have to compensate for these fluctuations."

Snorting, the brown-haired boy let a scowl touch his lips. Ignoring Quatre's startled gasp at the vision of his anger, he glared at him with cold, enraged emerald eyes. "We're not pawns, Quatre. We're not pieces you can manipulate ruthlessly around a board. I know you view things that way, and I know that the way you strategize and the way you've utterly used us at every opportunity has worked for everyone's benefit before. But I refuse to be toyed with again. Tell me what's going on."

His face slightly paled, Quatre leaned away from Trowa, attempting to find refuge in the cushions of his chair. Taking a bite of his hamburger, he nervously gulped his mouthful down before sighing softly. "I… can't."

"Why not?" Trowa softly and viciously seethed.

"Because I'm not sure of the security of this room, I'm not certain who's watching-"

"You're being paranoid. No one's watching."

"I'm NOT being paranoid! I'm just cautious!"

Shoulders slumping, Trowa stared at his companion, taking in his flushed cheeks and pale skin, observing the wide pupils surrounded by naught but a thin ring of panicked blue, watching the delicate hands dig manicured fingernails into the chair's cushions. 'He's afraid,' his mind whispered. 'He's truly afraid. He thinks we're being watched; he thinks our position isn't secure.'

'What's happened over these last few short months to stress you so much, Quatre? What's occurred to turn you into this scared rabbit I see quaking before me, trying to scheme his way out of a corner past an imagined pack of wolves?'

'Or is that pack really just imagined…? Why won't you tell me?'

His face losing its sharp edge, Trowa sighed and relaxed his posture. "I didn't mean to snap. Sorry."

Closing his eyes, color reaching his cheeks to stain them with the red of embarrassment, Quatre smiled slightly. "I… I'm sorry I can't tell you what you want to know. Maybe I am just being silly, but I just don't feel that this is the safest time or place."

"So long as this doesn't end up like before with me being left in the dark about what everything means and why we're doing what we're doing even when we parted ways, I'll be fine. Just tell me soon, alright?" Trowa calmly stated, his eyes softening considerably as he regarded the small boy before him.

Folding his hands upon his lap after placing his hamburger back on the table's top, Quatre nodded once, his blonde bangs flopping gracelessly across his cheeks and in his eyes. "Aright. Or, maybe, you can figure it out for yourself."

"For myself?" Trowa mouthed.

"Aa."

-- 18:37 --

Trowa's fingers lightly rested upon the pawn that rested in square D7.

'Maybe I can figure it out for myself, huh? Is this how you mean to show me what you're planning, Quatre? Your clues are all going to be presented here and nowhere else. Your plans and schemes, laid out right before my eyes, and I doubt I'll be able to see it.'

'Why do you have to torment me like this, Quatre? You could simply tell me. Relocate us to a safe location, and tell me.'

His fingertips gripped the pawn's round head and slowly lifted it. He stared at the board.

'After all, I am your friend. I wish you'd realize that. You can trust me. Of anyone, I would be the least likely person about to betray you….'

'Scratch that. I'd never betray you. Because… because I….'

Closing his eyes, he drove his thoughts away for a moment as he placed his pawn down in square D5, two places ahead of its previous location.

'Stop it. Stop thinking such irrelevant thoughts. He's going to show me what he's planning, and he's going to use this board to do it.'

'Pay attention, damn it.'

Trowa watched carefully as Quatre's fingers gripped the pawn directly across from Trowa's sweeping it without hesitation from square D2 to D4.

'And so it begins.'

His eyes watched the blonde as he leaned back into his chair, fingers intertwined, blue eyes watching the board cautiously.

'Now, to find out what it is you want to show me.'

-- 20:08 --

Trowa frowned, scratching his chin as he stared at the board. The alarm clock's digital readout changed, the eight displayed at the end of its numerical reading of the time flickering and becoming a shining red nine.

With a nod, Trowa leaned back into the soft cushions of his chair, a slight smile meeting his lips and his eyes soft as he stared at the small victorious blonde. "I concede. It's checkmate. You win."

Quatre simply nodded, before softly muttering, "Good game."

Trowa mentally frowned. 'That game was anything but good. I'm nothing but a rank amateur compared to him, yet I held up with him and kept pace enough to drag this one game out for over an hour.'

'It's not that I was good. It's that he was playing sloppily. Why? What was going on? He should have been able to crush me….'

'Or was he trying to show me something?'

Scratching his chin, Trowa kept his eyes upon the checkmated board, his brain running over the game again and again, replaying it in his mind.

-- 18:53 --

Trowa watched as the black pawn was moved from square E2 to E3. Quatre's third move was completed, leaving Trowa to contemplate his forth.

The lighter colored brown pieces belonged to Trowa. Three of them were already out of place, correlating with the three moves he'd already made. Both knights had emerged from their home squares, venturing into the vicious battlefield that was the squares incorporated by and between rows three and six. One pawn had also ventured into that dire playing field, bravely setting forth on a journey that Trowa was betting would end in utter oblivion, being captured swiftly by the darker colored pieces at the other end of the field.

The darker pieces, belonging to Quatre, showed just as little deviation from their initial positions. Two pawns and the almighty queen had been jostled from their positions and sent off into battle, their ultimate purpose still hidden from prying eyes.

Trowa's eyebrows shot up as he stared at the board. One move was screaming at him to be completed. 'It's so open! So obvious! It must be a trap.' Narrowing his eyes, he leaned forward, intently studying the board and all the pieces placed upon it, attempting to discern just how and where his opponent could have already laid a trap for him to enter.

'It's just a tempting lure, isn't it? Just trying to get me to move my piece out to be captured. Then why am I not seeing any danger?'

'What's up with this sloppy play?' Trowa thought, even as he brought his bishop from square C3 to G4. Blinking a few times before releasing his piece, he felt his lips turn with a small, nearly invisible frown. "Check," he muttered quietly.

Trowa's eyes widened as he saw Quatre's shoulders stiffen.

'He wasn't expecting that? Isn't he paying attention to his own pieces?'

'What is he planning on so intently that he's forgetting his other pieces? Every other time we've played, he's always attempted to defend his pieces as well as he could, making it nearly impossible to dream of just capturing one much less ever getting him into check!' What's on his mind?'

It was then that the small, pale hands flew into motion, first seeking to stop the capture of his king by sweeping his bishop from F1 to E2, standing in the way of Trowa's lighter colored piece.

Nodding once, Trowa lifted his own bishop from G4 and placed it on F5, rescuing it from nearly inevitable capture which he would not be able to retaliate again. 'Now what are you doing?' he thought silently, even as he scratched his chin, staring at the board while Quatre contemplated his next move.

Trowa blinked.

'He's already lined up to capture my queen!' the realization screamed through his head. Bowing his head, he sighed quietly, not immediately seeing any way to avoid the capture that was coming. So instead of attempting to ponder a way out of the situation, he instead retaliated by sweeping his queen out to square B5, capturing one of Quatre's holy bishops with bloodthirsty intent. 'If nothing else, I'll take him out with me.'

Nodding, Trowa was already maneuvering his pieces into a defensive castle as Quatre utilized his own queen to lift Trowa's piece off of the board.

The dark knight moved after the castling sequence had occurred. A white pawn stepped free of his home square.

And Trowa stared as Quatre castled on the queenside, sweeping his king into the relative safety of a wall of pawns and the shield of his rook. 'He's already taking a defensive position?'

-- 19:26 --

Trowa shook his head.

"What is it?" Quatre quietly asked, arching one golden brow over one dark, worried blue eye.

"Are you watching what you're doing?" Trowa quietly asked as he stared at the board.

"I'm trying to show you something. I'm watching everything."

Trowa blinked, his eyes lifting their gaze from the board and setting their stare firmly upon the blonde. 'You're paying attention to how you're playing? And you're doing it so sloppily?'

'What is it you're trying to show me? What is it you're trying to make me understand?'

The last few moves had been as Trowa had expected from his gaming partner. A vicious volley of captures initiated and carried through by one powerful yet apparently expendable piece had stolen two pawns and a bishop from the board in three simple jumps. Trowa had taken his first opportunity to capture the offending piece before any more of his precious wooden soldiers could be stolen from the board, only to find himself scrambling to rescue his king from capture as Quatre's queen had swept into square B3 and placed it into check. It had been what he'd been waiting for – a carefully schemed coup, resulting in a massacre of pieces and the swift swing of the proverbial axe at the neck of his opposition, barely dodged in the nick of time.

But then, he'd moved his pawn from C2 to C4, leaving his remaining knight in position to be captured by Trowa's pawn which sat in plain view, unobstructed, unchallenged and unthreatening, in square F5. He'd left his knight with no protection and no recourse to retaliate with its inevitable capture.

Trowa took the piece, placing his bishop on square B2.

He stared as Quatre cringed again, his eyes narrowing slightly as if his mind were absorbing the game as the inevitable flow of the river that was life, and that piece that had just perished under Trowa's careful hand had once had a name and a purpose.

-- 19:49 --

The game had continued plodding, Trowa staring as Quatre's play simply seemed to ride upon its deteriorating crest, his moves half-hearted and unplanned.

'He doesn't seem to have any set strategy. What the hell is he doing? Why is he playing such an amateurish game?' Trowa's mind mused.

He blinked as Quatre's coup finally flew into plain sight.

"Pawn called queen. Check," the blonde softly said, placing a ring around his pawn's base.

"You can't have more than one queen on the board at one time," Trowa vainly tried to argue.

"Yes you can. You read that rule, didn't you?"

Snapping his fingers, Trowa let his lips twist with a slight smirk. "I was hoping you hadn't."

"Seeing as how I utilize these boards to plan my maneuvers in life, I'd certainly hope that I know all the moves that are possible in the game," Quatre said quietly, his voice soft and serious.

His slightly joking mannerism flying right out the window, Trowa's lips found their way immediately into their straight-lined mask. "Of course," he simply said with a nod as he swept his knight from A6 to B8 to block the queen's view of his vulnerable king.

Quatre nodded as he moved his bishop to H6, capturing the unprotected rook.

Trowa scowled. 'I was going to rescue that piece. Damned check. But…'

The dance of pieces continued, pawn capturing bishop, pawn capturing pawn, each piece making its treks about the board in a desperate search for ways to destroy their opposition or fulfill their objectives, Trowa's being to shield his king and take away his attackers while Quatre's focused primarily on capturing Trowa's command head, his own being quite safe on the unchallenged and unoccupied side of the board.

Trowa scowled as a black pawn touched his side of the board.

"Pawn called queen. Check. Mate in one."

'Damn!' his mind cursed as he took his last move, drawing his rook from B5 to B8 to take away that newly formed queen, capturing her with a grumbled sigh.

Quatre slowly drew his unmoved pawn-turned-queen that had sprang from the moves made in what seemed like a lifetime ago from E8 to B8, stealing the rook right off the board. "Checkmate," he softly said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers pressing together.

-- 20:10 --

'His play was so incredibly sloppy. Why? What was his focus?'

'Or was that his point? That he has no focus, and he's simply blindly running about in a vain attempt to stop whoever it is that's striking out against him with no plan or focus because he also has no clue what's really going on?'

'Or was his blatant lack of concern for all of his pieces because he was focused only on using the queen for his moves? Because every piece he could utilize he made certain became a queen?'

'Because, maybe, he sees himself as being alone against whoever is attacking him? Because he's running scared from an enemy who could crush him if he made a single wrong move? Because he's scampering under the gaze of an enemy who's waiting for him to try to shield his companions from it, to expose himself to danger instead of protecting his own hide, to crush him completely?'

'Because aren't you, Quatre… aren't you always the most powerful yet most readily sacrificed piece on the board?'

'All those other times we played, it was the queen that found its demise on the board, allowing the pawns and rooks and knights to complete the work it had started, following the directives you'd already plotted out in your skull.'

'Is that why you had the influx of the queens? Because they represent yourself? Because….'

'Because you're alone?'

Setting his stare upon the small boy, Trowa crossed his arms over his chest.

Quatre arched a brow. "Think you learned something?"

"Never underestimate you, especially when it looks like you're defeated."

A small laugh escaped the blonde. "That wasn't the lesson I expected to teach."

Trowa smirked slightly, nodding once. "Right. But you have to admit, that was a merciless way to end things. You could have shown a little caring before you crushed me like a bug."

A frown touched Quatre's lips. "Shown mercy…?"

"Yeah. As much as you showed the soldiers you faced when you first arrived on Earth, at least," Trowa jokingly said, his green eyes shining in the newly instigated room light, him having turned on the lamp that hung over the table as the sun's dying rays had finally slipped from the window and left the room dark.

Bowing his head, Quatre shook his head. "There is no mercy like that anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"That our lives change with the progression of time. They change inevitably and forever. And the more you change…"

Trowa waited calmly for him to finish.

"The less you feel. The less you care. The less you are concerned with what happens around you, as long as you survive to see tomorrow."

Emerald eyes widened.

'The game… he truly was abandoning his companion pieces. He was striking out on his own, leaving them to their own devices to flounder and die or run and escape as they saw fit. That can't be! That's not… that's not like the Quatre I know. The Quatre I know would take the blows meant for his companions before abandoning them. That's not our Quatre. That's not the Quatre that sent me that recording. That's not my Quatre… that can't be true!'

"Believe."

'No.'

_tbc..._


	9. Chapter IX

Review replies:

Yurikitsune: (smiles and breaks out her killer gerbil (Munchkin is fierce, damn it! Fierce like a kitten), then dashes like the Road Runner on a caffeine high to ff. net to set the white rodent upon the gremlins that haunted chapter 8's review feature) Hopefully that works! (evil little laugh) Anyway, thank you so much for the review(s)! To answer your question, I do play chess frequently (though not that fabulously – ChessMaster continually kicks my ass), and the queen is NOT usually a regularly sacrificed piece - you were correct in that assumption. That's Quatre's own spin – he sacrifices his powerful pieces so his pawns can swing in and surprise his enemies. Can't say I've ever envisioned Quatre in a poofy pink dress (usually doujinshi takes the need to imagine it away. Evil! The boy's a… well, BOY!), but now I'll be cackling helplessly every time I read that scene. Thanks. :P And I WISH I wasn't posting due to a vacation. It's due to my ship pulling out and going to the med, and probably the Persian gulf as well. Yay. Sometimes I love my job, being in the Navy and all – other times I wish my place of employment would sink so I'd never have to return. :)

MikaSamu: Ah, thanks for the review! (gush) The true message of the game. Heh heh. It'll be figured out in full later. Don't want to spoil anything, after all! Thank you for reading this, and I hope my next chapters are just as satisfactory.

Pandora-chan: Glad I got you your Quatre fix. :) And glad you liked the fluorescent green shirt. Given the chemistry between James and Trowa, I couldn't see something like that NOT happening. (laughs) Sorry if the chess is confusing, but hey! It's… well… necessary. And meant to be confusing. :P And as for the end, that has yet to be determined – unfortunately, there can't be an angsty death – damned attempting to keep in timeline! Damn it all! Can't kill people before Blind Target and Endless Waltz. (cry)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

A/N: Notes concerning things/places in the fic are located at the end of the chapter.

A/N 2: Big huge graphic scene of self-gratification in this chapter. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, skip it (not the chapter, the scene). Please don't choose to flame me because of that scene – if you're going to flame me, make it over something worthwhile. :P

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Hidden thoughts and alibis  
my secret thoughts come alive  
without a care in this whole world  
without a care in this life  
it's what you take that makes it right_

_Porcelina Of The Vast Oceans_

-- 13:12 --

Quatre leaned back in his chair, his eyes lightly closed and his lips curled with the slightest hint of a smile as the wind whistled in through the rental car's rolled down window to tousle his blonde locks wildly about his pale face. His hand, draped outside of the vehicle, tapped softly on the exterior panel of the car in time with the music that thumped from its speakers, the ancient lull of classic jazz pumping merrily with flashy saxophone singles and the bright roar of guitar play with accompanying heady drum displays. His head lolled back to rest on the headrest of his plush car seat, a sigh escaping him indicating his satisfaction and ease with his surroundings at the moment.

Trowa kept his eyes carefully on the road, taking care to not break any traffic law lest he be pulled over by the ever-diligent California Highway Patrol. He wasn't certain if his Colony Driver's License would be valid on the Earth, and he didn't want to test his suspicions that it wouldn't be. After all, it would be a bit difficult for him to explain exactly how a boy barely sixteen years of age was permitted to drive a motor vehicle without a licensed operator accompanying him. Also it would be a touch complicated explaining how they'd managed to come into possession of the rental car they were currently driving, as the laws of the Earth Sphere and the business world still held that no person under twenty five years of age might rent a car. Yet here they were, driving down the freeway system of the Golden State in a rented Mercedes Benz E430W (1) thanks to Quatre's ever faithful chauffeur who had more than gladly taken the Bentley Arnage R he was in charge of to its garage for some well deserved care and storage and signed the paperwork to acquire the rental for them, if only to get himself out of having to escort them across the entirety of the coast.

He glanced over at his partner in the vehicle, stripping his eyes from the road for the barest hint of a second to ensure that Quatre was at ease in the vehicle. Seeing him humming calmly and his head bobbing slowly in time with the music, Trowa smirked and returned to his task of getting them to their destination safely.

He'd yet to ask Quatre why exactly they were going to the Aquarium of the Pacific (2). For some odd reason, Trowa couldn't bring himself to pester the young blonde about the strange choice of destinations for them this day. He was still reflecting on the night that had just passed.

Trowa hadn't thought that simply spending time with the blonde would make him so relaxed and happy. It was not the first time they'd shared a hotel room.

It had been the first time, though, that they'd shared a bed.

Before when they'd roomed together, they'd met before Quatre had selected a hotel room. He'd selected a two bed suite at the Star Regent, leaving Trowa to sleep in his own supremely soft queen sized bed, lost in the confusing swirl of the mission parameters he was to follow with the New Edwards base that next morning, the heady scent of the herbal shampoo he and his partner in Gundam piloting had used in the showers they'd taken before heading to bed, and the soft breathing of that partner from the other bed that was lost in the thick darkness of that room. It had been a restless night spent listening to Quatre's quiet inhalations and exhaling than finding refuge in such similar relaxation, dealing with the odd sensations that quelled within him.

The night that had just come to pass had left Trowa even more ill rested and tired with the coming of dawn. He'd not gotten a single wink of sleep the entire night.

They'd begun on opposite sides of the bed, both with their own segments of the large comforter and soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Trowa had closed his eyes, listening as Quatre's breath slowed and calmed, indicating his slippage into the dark realm of sleep that he felt he was soon to enter as well.

Then he'd discovered that Quatre was a closet-snuggler.

Trowa had remained awake all night, his nose buried in the warmth of soft blonde hair that smelled faintly of jasmine, his chest warmed by soft breath that was not his own, his mind fighting desperately to keep his hormone-ridden body under control as Quatre's arms rested lazily across his lean stomach and held him loosely.

He'd made certain to wriggle his way out of the soft yet possessive embrace before the blonde stirred with the first signs of awareness to save him the embarrassment of knowing he'd been clutching him all night long and to relieve himself of what would certainly sully his reputation in the other boy's eyes.

All the coffee he'd drank that morning to ward off the tiredness that came with lack of slumber was making the road veritably dance before his twitching eyes as he drove down the 710, now barely ten miles away from their destination.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked why I chose this location," Quatre suddenly asked, catching Trowa entirely off guard.

Blinking once, he glanced over. "I just figured that such was more information I'm not supposed to know."

Laughing, the blonde shook his head, tapping still in time with the music on the silver exterior panel of the Mercedes' door. "There's very little you aren't supposed to know. However, you simply have this wonderful knack for asking for just that information."

"I see," Trowa replied, returning his gaze to the freeway, changing lanes to get onto the right road once the freeway came to its termination.

"Ask if you like. I'll tell you if something is something you aren't allowed to know."

"I'm still curious about why I'm not allowed to be privy to the information I want."

"Because telling you would either destroy your ability to react as I expect you to, would cause you to carry more concern for me than is necessary, would put other lives at risk because you would either not agree with their motives or wouldn't know better than to relay such information if asked to thinking it to be unimportant, or would be something I simply don't know."

"I see."

"Please don't be so bitter," Quatre softly said, opening his dark sea-blue eyes and turning in his seat to face Trowa. Drawing his arm in the window, he sighed. "I'm sorry that I make it sound as if I'm simply utilizing you. I'm truly trying not to."

"It doesn't much matter, does it?" Trowa said quietly, turning the wheel of the car to get onto Aquarium Drive. "I'm already wrapped up in this. There's no turning back now, I suppose, no matter how much I want to run away. Once a part of the plot, there's no escaping."

A defeated laugh left the blonde. "You've got that right. If I'd had that knowledge years ago, I never would have taken up my role in this escapade myself. I would have gotten out while the getting was good."

"I see. You're saying you're trapped?"

Looking out the window, Quatre sighed. "As trapped as Relena Dorlain is in her position, as the rest of the Gundam pilots are by their roles in the war, as the ex-soldiers of OZ and the Alliance are in their new, unfamiliar lives. As trapped in this exercise of survival as Xavier is, as you are, as James is. Trapped by my own devices into a mad dance I now can't escape and can see no end to."

"Who's behind it?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know."

Trowa frowned. 'The ease of that answer… he knows. He's just not telling me.'

'More information I'm not supposed to know, eh Quatre? What's your reasoning behind not telling me this time? Too many lives in danger?'

'Or drawing more concern to you than you feel for some reason is necessary?'

-- 07:11 --

Trowa slowly removed himself from the pale arms that encircled him, his movements careful and slow not only to keep from jarring the sleeping blonde out of his slumber but also out of complete necessity. Lifting one of Quatre's tiny hands, he paused for but a moment to study it as he cradled it in his own. Delicate, perfectly manicured fingernails rested in his own dark palm, tipping pale fingers that lead to a slender, fragile-looking hand that looked like a finely crafted work created of porcelain. Small, elegant digits that laid upon his own heavily callused hand. It took every measure of self-control that Trowa could muster to not squeeze that small exquisite hand before putting it down on Quatre's side then slipping off the huge bed.

Slipping a pillow down to Quatre's slowly seeking arms and smirking as he clutched the feathery offering readily and buried his head against it with a happy little sigh, Trowa shook his head before slipping off to the bathroom. Stripping himself of his boxers, he closed the door behind himself and turned on the lights with a flick of the switch, blinking and squinting as the florescent white light shed by the tubular bulb that rested in its fancifully scrolled casing flooded the small white-tiled and white-walled room, casting almost blinding radiance about his person. Rubbing his tired eyes, he stared at himself in the mirror.

Dark bags lay under tired, bloodshot green eyes, highlighting their emerald coloration while contrasting sharply with his lightly tanned skin. Grunting softly, he rubbed his eyes again.

'Damned Quatre kept me from getting to sleep….'

'Damned Quatre, with his soft skin and his light breathing, sleeping on my chest….'

Lowering his hand, he lightly brushed his fingertips over the slightly damp feeling skin that lay taunt, stretched over the muscles that protected his ribs and his heart. He could still feel the soft touch of fine blonde locks sprawled across his skin, electrifying to the touch. He could still feel the whisper of breath brushing over his skin, its touch tingling and tickling, softer than the softest of rose petals or feathers could ever be. He could still feel the heat of skin upon skin, the soft perfection of the blonde's cheek upon his chest, the slightest movement of his lips upon his flesh as he breathed and muttered unintelligible gibberish in the depths of his sleepy dreams. He could still feel every inch of contact that had occurred between them while Quatre slept burning his body like wildfire that refused to be quenched. He could still feel the effect having the young man against his body, pressed hip to hip with him, had brought upon his frame.

A hearty blush came across his cheeks as he stepped into the shower and turned the 'cold' water faucet on. Trembling fingers quickly pulled the knob that would direct the flow of icy water from the faucet to the showerhead that protruded from the wall above his head.

Trowa shivered as the cold spray of water that erupted from the showerhead drenched the front of his body, its frigid tendrils snaking along his flesh, teasing his neck, his chest, his stomach, his groin, his thighs. Icy cold touches poured across his body, unforgiving with their chill.

It wasn't helping.

He could still feel the burning of Quatre's breath upon his skin, still feel the scent of his hair in his nostrils. He could still feel the warmth of his unintentional touch pounding through his blood, warming him from within, making the water's vain attempt to ward off his excitement futile.

Turning the 'hot' water faucet a touch to get some warmth to mingle with the cold spray that assaulted his body, he sighed softly in defeat. And, reaching with one hand, he picked up the hotel-issued bar of soap that always managed to mystically appear in the showers of every hotel he'd ever stayed in and unwrap it. Staring at the bar for but a moment, he nodded before setting it to his skin, determined to wipe the intoxicating touch and the luscious smell that lingered over his flesh away before it drove him mad with longing and want.

He whimpered softly as he dragged the bar across his chest, cheeks flushed as he inadvertently teased his own nipples with the slippery soap, drawing it in circles around his hardened dark nubs. Biting his lip, he drew his other hand to his chest, lightly rubbing the other fleshy protrusion with a quiet moan.

Trowa groaned, working slowly and intentionally, trying desperately to replace the blonde's touch with his own.

It wasn't working.

He found himself imagining that it was Quatre lightly brushing his nipples, pale fingers with their perfectly manicured nails gently kneading his chest, pink colored lips parting and rubbing his aching skin.

Eyes closed, he groaned quietly, letting his hand slowly slip from his nipple, moving the bar of soap down the smooth skin that covered the rigid, chiseled muscles of his stomach.

Quatre's imaginary touch slipped down his stomach, his hands smooth and tender as they played with the ridges his abdomen sported, his lips brushing his flesh, trailed shortly by his soft bangs. Trowa staggered slightly, leaning against the wall behind him for support, eyes squeezed shut as he felt the gentle touch find its way between his legs, slowly rubbing along the length of his engorged cock, teasingly circling the ruby head it was tipped with.

The hand with the small bar of soap circled his manhood, tightly squeezing it.

Hissing, Trowa let his head loll to the side, his mouth falling open with soft, desperate pants as his hand pumped along his member, tugging at loose skin as it slid forward and back. His legs giving out from under him, he let himself carefully slide down the shower's white wall to sit upon the white-tiled floor. Spreading his knees apart, he roughly jerked on his manhood, crying out with the force of his own touch.

Crying out with the force of his – no, Quatre's - touch, feeling Quatre's fingers sliding from his nipple to find their way between his legs, feeling his gentle hand tenderly squeeze his testicles before snaking lower, his ability to focus on anything else - the water that pounded him, the warm floor beneath him, the smooth wall behind him - faded and failed him.

Trowa whimpered as he imagined the blonde's touch, his own fingers slowly dipping into the tight, hot, forbidden regions of his being to softly caress the virginal flesh there. Biting his lip, squirming as his own intrusion of his own body radiated along his nerves like fiery ice, he cried out as he pressed into his flesh and tightly yanked on his cock. All he could see was Quatre in his mind and his heart, servicing him as he'd serviced those he'd laid with in the past, taking him for his own, letting him take his blonde hair into his hand and direct him to service him as he pleased. All he could feel was Quatre's touch, gentle yet hard enough to stimulate every nerve in his inexperienced body, teaching him all the knowledge Quatre had gained in his years, letting him claim Quatre for his own and possessively make him belong to him and him alone.

All he felt as he came was the burn of the blonde's touch still lingering upon his skin and the cool electric brush of his hair upon his chest when his body stiffened and shivered, his seed coating his fingers as he shook and cried with the force of his self-driven orgasm.

Sitting on the floor of the shower for a few moments, panting softly as he attempted to regain awareness of where he was and what had just occurred, Trowa slowly opened his eyes. He slowly regained his feet even as his cheeks burned with realization of what he'd done….

Of what he'd done, and what he'd imagined while he'd done it.

-- 16:41, Yesterday --

Trowa rubbed the towel vigorously as he stepped out of the bathroom, grumbling as he felt its soft cottony material rub viciously over his scalp. He was once again fighting a losing battle with his hair, cursing the mysterious persons who were his long dead parents for passing on to him the genes that brought about the incredible thickness of the brown mop he sported, making it impossible to wring the water out of and making it spring fluffily to life before his face, unable to be wrestled into any vague semblance of control, when left to dry naturally.

Glancing over, the blonde smiled at him, his dark blue eyes sporting laughter even though his lips did not carry it. Shaking his head, he went back to reading his paper.

Giving up for a moment, Trowa laid the towel over his bare shoulders. Stepping into his jeans and drawing them up his well-formed legs and his baggy lion-print boxers, he zipped them up and hooked his fingers into the belt loops they sported as he strode across the giant hotel room to stand beside Quatre, reading over his shoulder. "Stock's doing well for you, isn't it?"

"It's down two points. No big loss. Our next merger will more than compensate for that."

"I see," Trowa said, a slightly lopsided slant taking his lips.

"So, Trowa, what have you been up to since the end of the war?" Quatre casually asked.

'Ah, perfect opportunity to find something out,' he mused silently even as he answered, "Nothing much. Been working at the circus with Kathy."

"That's all? Nothing new in your life?" A wry grin took the blonde's lips as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "No love interest?"

Trowa's face was as bland as he could possibly craft it to be.

"I guess not," Quatre said with a giggle.

"No. Nothing new. And in your life?"

Waving a hand, Quatre huffed softly. "Other than this whole assassination thing, it's been alright. Overwrought with stress and worry and flooded with too many meetings and more constituents annoying me every moment of every day than I could possibly shake a stick at, but still rather alright."

"I see." Trowa's lips tilted at their edges to form a slight frown. "You aren't lying to me, are you?"

"Why would I lie?" Quatre said, staring at him as innocently as he could, eyes wide and filled with hurt over being recriminated.

"Just wondering. It's just rather odd that you're targeted for assassination, especially if you've been doing nothing more than managing your business."

"Yeah, it is odd," Quatre quietly agreed. "I have a few theories…."

"Tell me."

"They aren't solidified yet, Trowa."

"Tell me anyway."

The blonde frowned before shaking his head. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Trowa asked, his voice carrying the slightest tinge of peevishness upon its edges.

"Because I don't want you jumping to conclusions just yet. And I don't want you adjusting your reactions because you think you might know something that may or may not be true."

Trowa sighed quietly. 'It's exactly like half a year ago. He's evading every attempt I make at getting information out of him.'

'Damn it, what did I ever do to deserve this frustration?'

-- 08:31 --

Trowa crossed his arms as the blonde's voice leaked from the bathroom, proclaiming that they were going down to Long Beach that day. "Why?" he questioned again as he flopped down on the edge of the bed.

'Bad idea,' his brain reminded him as immediately the soft warmth of the bed, still drenched in the scents of both him and his partner, met his awareness. Grunting he rose from the bed and chose a chair instead, lest his body react in accordance to what his hormones were wanting rather than listening to his mind.

Quatre's voice answered him, muffled by the bathroom door and the hiss of water spraying from the shower nozzle within the room's confines, "Because I want to go to the Aquarium."

"The Aquarium?"

"Yep!"

Shaking his head, Trowa sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'We're going to the Aquarium. Instead of moving forward with whatever plot he's got going or trying to find out who's trying to kill him for what reason, he wants to go to a damned public aquarium. Damn it all, why? Why is he acting so irresponsible?'

'Why is this almost like last time? Running around the problem instead of just going in and solving it.'

"You'll want to wear something cool. It's going to be a steamy day today," Quatre's voice erupted from the bathroom.

"I didn't pack any."

"Then borrow something!"

Trowa rose from his seat, resting his hands on his hips. 'Be damned if I'm going to wear a button-up rose-colored dress shirt….'

After rooting for quite some time through Quatre's luggage, he'd finally emerged with a pair of jean shorts that must have been overly long on the blonde but would serve him in a pinch and a white t-shirt with a picture of a gerbil in a microwave proclaiming that it was 'Gonna do something to you. Something bad' upon its back. Quickly dressing, he found the shirt fit him comfortably and the shorts hung nearly to his knees, leaving his bare feet prepared for the pair of sandals that were a touch to big that had mystically appeared in his duffel bag; no doubt, sandals that were a gift from James. Slipping them on, he glanced at the mirrored wall that was the closet's door and nodded. 'Something cool, eh? I suppose this will have to do.'

A few more moments passed before the hiss of water stopped and silence emerged from the other side of the bathroom door. Trowa calmly seated himself back in his chair, watching as the door cracked open to allow steam to billow forth from the white-tiled room beyond, bathing the mirror that graced the wall behind the sink and coating it almost instantaneously in a thick layer of fog. Quatre walked casually out of the yawning orifice that lead to the bathing chamber, his white hotel-issued towel hanging loosely around his nearly nonexistent waist and being held in place only by the overly large knot that had been carefully worked into it.

Trowa stared, his eyes unconsciously taking in every detail portrayed to him.

He did not see the nearly faded marks left upon the white flesh by torture's whips and knives, nor did he see the old scars left by shrapnel, glass, and wire-created electrical fire burns that came with piloting the mobile suit Sandrock during the war. He did not see the angry slit that punctured his body right between his ribs and as Trowa knew ran through clear to the other side of his lithe frame, granted to him by the rapier wielded by Dorothy Catalonia during the chaotic climax of their battles upon the Space Fortress Libra. He did not see the reminders of war or of pain, or the scars of past use and abuse both as pilot and infiltrator.

Trowa saw nothing but perfection, taking in the supple, smooth lily white skin, the soft curves, the hint of subtle yet strong muscle under that deceivingly beautiful flesh, the hard lines of a fit body buried by a veil of delicacy. He saw nothing but the gentle pastels that made up the young man before him, gold so pale it shone nearly white in the florescent light-bulbs' glow and skin so unmarred by the touch of the sun it looked like finely crafted porcelain.

'God, he's beautiful.'

'I don't care if I am being dragged along in some insane plot that makes no sense and does nothing but put me at risk of being slaughtered.'

'I'm doing this for him. No other reason.'

Watching as the blonde made his way to his suitcase and instantly had a pair of dark denim jeans that would very nicely fit him, a pair of plain black silk boxers and an eggshell blue polo shirt in hand and was marching back into the bathroom to get himself dressed, Trowa sighed very softly.

'You've already taken my heart. Take my life if you want.'

'It's what you take that makes it right, right?'

-- 13:20 --

"I can't believe it took that long to find a parking place!" Quatre groaned as he got out of the car and stretched, reaching for the ceiling of the parking garage with intertwined hands.

Getting out of the car, Trowa shook his head. "Must be busy today."

"Must be," Quatre agreed, even as he started marching towards the staircase that would inevitably lead them to the ground level floor and then to the sidewalk that traipsed towards the giant, glistening building that was the Aquarium of the Pacific, Quatre's intended getaway from the chaos he was now apparently trapped in.

Catching up to the blonde with a few long, easy strides, Trowa stuffed his hands in his jean-shorts' pockets. Looking over at his companion, he felt his lips form a slight smirk. "So, tell me. Why the Aquarium?"

Grinning, Quatre flashed Trowa an easy, carefree wink. "Because I want to get away from it all for today, and I love fish. And no single accountant or lawyer would ever possibly think to track me down here."

"That's the only reason?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I'm playing hooky from my diligent business cohorts."

Trowa had to cover his lips as he quietly laughed when Quatre stuck the tip of his tongue out of his mouth and squinted his eyes while wrinkling his nose. "Bad boy."

"Heh. What'cha gonna do about it? Spank me?"

Trowa nearly tripped as the blonde laughed and walked ahead of him, his pace increasing with the marvelous sight of the ticket counter looming before them, beckoning for them to approach and lob money at the cashiers behind the Plexiglas wall.

They entered right beside one another, Quatre handing their tickets to the door usher and receiving the stubs in return. Setting foot into the cool-aired building, Trowa breathed a sigh of relief at being removed from the already skyrocketing temperatures that were making themselves known outdoors even as Quatre merrily bounded over towards the first of the museums multitudes of living exhibits.

Glancing around, he carefully took stock of his surroundings. The place most certainly was crowded, as he had suspected. To his left was a gift shop swarming with children and their parents searching for souvenirs. Further back to his left, he saw a huge tank reaching from the ground floor to well above the lofty top of the second, stretching what had to be nearly thirty feet in height, the silvery flashes within its dark confines betraying the presence of its aquamarine inhabitants. Before him stretched dark, almost haunting corridors awash in gentle blue light and carrying names of Pacific Ocean regions above them. Red Sea, Coastal North America, and so on were merrily lit above each orifice, inviting persons to explore their confines. A staircase right before him lead to the upper story, which as far as his emerald eyes could discern held more of those titled orifices and a bridge leading to what he discerned must be the Scuba Café the brochures told of. To his right laid the other end of that staircase from the second story and the restrooms, plus the entrance for those persons that had season tickets to the Aquarium along with a large coppery globe with information signs posted upon and around it. And above him stretched a huge, life-scale model of a blue whale and its month old calf, suspended from the ceiling by giant wire cables.

Turning on his heel, he stared at his surroundings. It was clean and well cared for, bordering on lavish even as it screamed minimalism and provided huge open spaces for the crowds that sought to fill them. Blinking a few times to get his bearings straight, he turned and walked to Quatre, finding him before the aquarium that faced the entrance of the building – the only aquarium residing outside of those dark corridors – watching colorful fish slowly swim back and forth before their coral laden backdrop.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Quatre softly sighed, watching as Yellow Butterflyfish and Imperator Angelfish swam peacefully with Green Chromis and spectacular Rainbow Wrasses.

'Perhaps coming here wasn't such a bad idea after all,' Trowa's mind mused as he began to lose himself in the splendor of the relaxing display before him.

Soon the crowd forced them to move, but they came to discover that this was in no way a loathsome development. Rather they were swept along to tank after tank, the variety held within the glass walls more than enough to keep them entertained and intrigued, staring at uniquely shaped fishes such as the Unicorn Parrotfish with its giant protrusion erupting from what could only be referred to as its forehead and the gracefully sweeping branches of the delicate Fern Corals. They watched as sharks swam peacefully with smaller fishes, gliding above them in the tubular tunnel that made up the giant reef tank that was the star attraction of the Aquarium. They surveyed tuna swimming before them, their silver bodies sparkling and shooting off with unimagined speed with the barest flick of a widely forked yellow tail. They laughed at the underwater antics of the rescued sea lions that danced in their own private chamber, and chuckled at the playful sea otters.

Trowa was smiling by the time they decided to head to the Scuba Café and eat before heading back outside to pet the sting rays and watch the sea lions from above, to watch the tidal pools and stare at crabs and muscles under the hot sun that hovered above in the sky.

Quatre grinned slyly at him, winking. "See? I knew that coming to the Aquarium would be relaxing."

"Yeah," Trowa replied.

He managed to not lose his stride as Quatre's arm found its way around his waist.

However, he did come to a complete stop as the bullet ricochet off the rail a few inches before Quatre, skittering away and slamming into the giant blue whale that was suspended from the ceiling, knocking a chunk of blue concrete off of its left pectoral fin.

_tbc..._

1) See it at: http/ www. mbusa. com (remove the spaces. Sorry, but the entire link's hellishly long, so I didn't directly post it.)

2) Wonderful place! If you're in the area, GO! It's fabulous in real life! gushes I wanna go back… I love the Aquarium… sniffle sniffle Damned crappy east coast Aquariums just don't cut it. sob See it at: http/ www. aquariumofpacific. org (once again, remove the spaces.)


	10. Chapter X

Blaaargh.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

A/N: Gun info's at the end of the chapter. Enjoy!

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Rat-tat-tat, ka boom boom, now take that, and just a bit of this  
cause I'm a watcher, and I'm a doer of none  
come to save you, cause you're all mine_

_X.Y.U._

-- 21:59, Yesterday --

Trowa's fingers gripped the dark gray leather covered steering wheel as tightly as they could, knuckles going white under the strain with which he grasped the wheel. Leaning forward in his chair his eyes narrowed as they watched the road sprawled before him, long white stripes that separated the lanes of the freeway zooming past him in the barest hint of a moment almost seeming to meld into a solid line of color on the black asphalt. The engine of the powerful Mercedes roared like an angered jungle cat under the silver-colored hood, its distinctive voice loud and grating, seething at being driven so hard yet pining for more as it was no where near its limits though Trowa's foot was nearly implanted into the floorboard.

Trowa cursed his luck. At this time of the evening on a dark Saturday night, there was minimal traffic on the road. He would have given anything; his credit cards and the clothing right off his back, his life at the circus, his favorite lion Jub-Jub, his left nut, for a good deal of evening commuter traffic to hide himself in. Instead, he was faced with a nearly perfectly empty Interstate 710. A few random headlights flickered on the other side of the freeway, heading towards Long Beach even as he raced desperately towards the Santa Monica Freeway.

'Maybe there'll be more traffic on the 10. Please, please let there be more traffic on the 10….'

'God, if you actually exist, please listen to me right now. Let there be a way to ditch them on the 10. Please….'

'Just a truck or something to hide my exiting off this damned freeway or something! Come on!'

Turning his eyes to the rearview mirror, his lips turned into a scowl. There were three sets of headlights behind him, keeping pace with him, one set slowly beginning to gain.

'Come on, you piece of shit! Go faster!'

Trowa let up on the gas a bit, then pounded it back into the floor. The car lurched a bit, but still topped out at 160 mph.

The green-eyed youth quietly cursed American regulations and speed governors.

Glancing over, he scowled. 'And there's no way Quatre can really help, is there? Damn it all…'

Quickly pressing the switch to lower the window, Trowa reached under the seat of the rental car and felt desperately for one of the guns he knew he'd stashed there before he and his blonde companion had headed out for the Aquarium of the Pacific earlier that afternoon. 'This afternoon… why does it seem like that was a lifetime ago?' he randomly thought, even as his fingers finally connected with what they sought. Gently tugging on the gun's barrel, he lifted it free of its hiding place and tossed it into his lap. Curling his hand around the weapon's haft, he set his finger to the trigger and his knee to the steering wheel, keeping the vehicle headed in an arrow-straight line down the freeway as he desperately flipped off the safety and loaded the Kahr Arms K9. Tugging back on the top slider, he grimaced. 'Fucking hell. The damned K9.'

Turning in his seat, his right hand gripping the steering wheel and attempting to keep his path down the freeway straight, he leaned out the window and carefully aimed with his off hand.

'9mm. And only seven shots. Got to make 'em count.'

Trowa instinctively ducked and dove back into the vehicle, dropping the gun in his lap and gripping the wheel with both hands to right his path down on the road, swinging violently away from the huge cement wall that served as the center median of the 710 freeway just moments before those final inches between it and the front left fender of the expensive Mercedes slammed into it as gunshots exploded from the vehicles that were following him, one blowing out the back window of the car and the others bouncing off the trunk with sharp metallic pinging and leaving the acrid scent of hot steel hanging for but moments in the car's cabin air before it was washed out by the rapid flow of wind pouring in through the windows and escaping out the back.

'Damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it!'

Looking over, his eyes narrowed, he desperately urged the blonde to take action with his mind. 'Come on, please help out a bit here! I know you're hurting, but help out, Quatre!'

The blonde turned pain-laced blue eyes towards the brunette, and simply nodded before leaning over and picking the handgun up out of his lap. Turning in his seat, wincing at the movement, Quatre braced himself against the seat as he carefully aimed with his off hand, his right arm cradled to his chest.

The crack of a bullet leaving the small handgun's barrel met Trowa's ears. Staring in the rearview mirror, he smirked as he saw one set of headlights careen out of control, swinging violently towards the right side of the freeway and barreling without mercy at over 150 mph into the dark brick wall that ran the length of the 710. The explosion of the car flooded the night, as did the light that radiated from the fires that sprang forth from it, nearly blinding the green-eyed driver of the rental car.

The rat-tat-tat of gunfire pounded through their vehicle. Ducking, Trowa buried his head between his legs, his instincts being all that kept the car going in a straight line, his hands mercilessly tight on the steering wheel. Quatre squeaked and slipped down in his seat, sliding down and out from under his seatbelt to curl onto the floorboards, utilizing the thick presence of the car's construction and the chair to shield him. He cried out, flinging his left arm above his head as the windshield exploded into naught but millions of sharp needles of glass.

Trowa winced as he felt the glass shards cover his back, some of the sparkling projections finding the tender skin of his neck and burying themselves in his hair. Lifting his head, he stared at the blown out windshield.

'They have something that can take out safety glass with one hit… a shotgun, maybe? Or…'

A car was pulling alongside of them. A black sedan. Trowa glanced over, his eyes wary and his gaze sharp. He couldn't make out the vehicle's make, but he knew one thing for certain – its owner had removed the speed governor that had most certainly been installed. Meaning that no matter how fast he tried to go, this car could outrun him.

'Damn!'

He ducked again as a flash erupted from the other vehicle's rear driver's-side window. The glass beside him exploded outwards.

'Fucking hell!'

They were pinned down. Quatre had no chance to lift himself over the edge of the seat to open fire, and Trowa was having a hard enough time trying to drive much less think of returning fire.

Out of options, the ex-pilot did all he could think to do.

He turned sharply on the steering wheel, swinging the thick steel of the Mercedes' body into the car that rode along side of them, shoving their enemy off course and sending them hurtling into the brick wall that rode along side of them, bouncing a few times off of the impossibly hard resistance of the barrier before spinning out and flipping end over end.

The front of the Mercedes hitched and jumped.

Grabbing the wheel, Trowa tried desperately to figure out what to do.

They were airborne, having jumped over the scant curb and burst through the steel railing that lined the off-ramp of the 710 North that would have led them to the 10 West.

Trowa watched with wide, frightened eyes as the car hurtled mercilessly through empty space, heading with frightening surreal slow speed towards the hard, unforgiving pavement of the freeway below.

-- 17:23, Yesterday --

Trowa was smiling by the time they decided to head to the Scuba Café and eat before heading back outside to pet the sting rays and watch the sea lions from above, to watch the tidal pools and stare at crabs and muscles under the hot sun that hovered above in the sky.

Quatre grinned slyly at him, winking. "See? I knew that coming to the Aquarium would be relaxing."

"Yeah," Trowa replied.

He managed to not lose his stride as Quatre's arm found its way around his waist.

However, he did come to a complete stop as the bullet ricochet off the rail a few inches before Quatre, skittering away and slamming into the giant blue whale that was suspended from the ceiling, knocking a chunk of blue concrete off of its left pectoral fin.

Screams and cries of panicked people flew from the ground level of the massive building as the pieces of the huge sea creature scattered themselves noisily on the ground, fortunately not striking any wandering passers-by on their way to the ground below. Soon the entire Aquarium was overrun, people screaming that there was gunfire within the building as they ran from it, the doors being thrown open and people tearing out wailing in terror. The guards tried their damnedest to move out of the way of the fleeing mob and ready their nightsticks, their faces pale with the thought that they would be going up against an enemy wielding a gun against their mere battery weapons, that they'd be facing someone who'd have the sheer audacity to fire a weapon in a peaceful family museum on a peaceful Saturday afternoon.

Trowa's eyes were focused not on the nearest exit or on those who swarmed around him like a desperate tidal wave reaching with manic purpose for a shore to crash upon. They were desperately tracing the flight path of that bullet, looking for whoever had fired that shot.

All he could see were the heads of people taller than him streaking by as they rushed toward the doors.

Cursing, he grabbed Quatre's arm and entered the sea, swimming along with the current that dragged him inevitably towards the door.

Another shot rang out.

People screamed and ran, pushing and shoving as they went.

Trowa's grip on Quatre nearly sipped as the smaller boy staggered and fell. Tightening his tenuous hold on his pale arm, he dragged Quatre back to his feet, intent on getting him out of the Aquarium-turned-firing-range as quickly as he could.

He glanced back, eyes wide with shock as he heard his blonde companion cry out.

It was then that he saw the blood that was trickling down Quatre's right arm and the dark red stain that was slowly spreading its way along his right shirtsleeve, marring the light eggshell blue coloration with its dark touch. Eyes widening involuntarily, he roughly pushed the blonde in front of him, intent on using himself as a shield as he egged the boy to get moving and head towards the stairs.

Keeping his grip on Quatre's arm tight, he laid his other hand upon his unmarked shoulder, taking the loose fabric of the polo shirt in his fingers and keeping a death grip on it, pushing him roughly ahead of him, holding him upright when he staggered. "Move faster," he whispered harshly, getting a gasped, "I'm trying!" from his partner.

The crowd swept them outside and dumped them without mercy into the wide open spaces that resided outside of the glass building, right before the huge concrete sculpture with its circling waves splashing and seeping over its sides.

Fingers still entwined in Quatre's shirt, Trowa ran as quickly as he could towards the parking garage, intent on reaching their car.

Both boys screeched to a halt as a pair of black cars, one a Crown Victoria and the other a Civic, pulled directly into their flight path.

Trowa pulled Quatre sharply as he redirected their flight path, running desperately along the street as the tinted windows of those vehicles rolled down and gun barrels emerged from them.

He staggered as a gunshot ricochet off the lamppost to his left. Quatre yelped, ducking his head, trying to keep pace with his partner's longer stride and quicker run.

Looking desperately for an escape path, Trowa dragged Quatre into traffic, running between cars, ignoring the cursing and the honking of horns that was sent forth to meet him. Running as quickly as he could, hauling his blonde burden mercilessly behind him, he cut a quick path up Pine Avenue.

Quatre tugged on his arm. "There! We can hide there!"

Trowa saw instantly what he was attempting to direct his attention to.

They plunged into the Movie Theater to their left, ignoring the protests of the ticket-collecting ushers and diving behind the thick, windowless walls, gasping for breath.

As minute after minute ticked past, Trowa risked glancing around the corner. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "I think we lost them," he quietly muttered to Quatre, staring as the small, heaving boy.

"Wait…" Quatre whimpered. "Let's wait in here. Please…?"

Trowa's eyes narrowed slight, taking in his smaller heaving companion's condition. 'We should get back to the car. We need to get to a hospital,' he mused silently to himself.

Quatre clipped his head in a negative. "No hospital. Where would you check if you were trying to kill someone and knew you'd injured them?"

Trowa's eyes narrowed. 'How the hell…!'

Quatre remained silent, simply panting for breath.

Trowa's lips turned with a slight frown as he answered Quatre's inquiry. "I'd check at the nearest hospital of course. Typical tactic used when hunting one singular target." Bowing his head, he sighed. "You going to be able to hold out?"

"For awhile," Quatre groaned softly, his eyes closing tightly as he lifted his left hand to his right shoulder, squeezing harshly on the mangled flesh that lay beneath the punctured fabric in an attempt to slow the flow of blood that trickled from his wound. "For a few hours. Let's wait in here… 'least until nightfall, yes?"

"Alright." It sounded like a rational idea to Trowa.

"We should catch a movie while we're here. That new Lucas IV film is showing, and the critics say it's supposedly fabulous!"

Trowa tried not to slap his forehead.

-- 21:47, Yesterday --

Quatre's eyes were tightly closed, his teeth gritted as he leaned back in his chair.

"You should try not to move," Trowa reflexively answered, glancing over as he switched lanes, edging towards the fast lane of the freeway.

"I know that," Quatre hissed softly. "Just… get us back to the hotel, alright?"

"I'm doing that, Quatre."

The blonde nodded once.

"Why did they try now?"

"Huh?" Quatre breathed, glancing over.

"Why did they try to assassinate you today, out in public? Wouldn't that draw a bit of attention?"

"Maybe that was the point…"

Trowa frowned.

"Or maybe, because I hadn't let anyone know where I was going to be today, they figured it would be the perfect way to assassinate me. No one would know where I was. I'd simply be missing. And if they moved quickly enough to dispose of my body-"

"You'd simply remain missing," Trowa quietly finished for him, a frown touching his lips. "What I'm trying to figure out is how they knew we were going to be here. I didn't even know until you came out of the shower that we were going here today. You think-"

"The room's bugged," Quatre interrupted, shaking his head. "I was supposed to be at a meeting today in Los Angeles with Mr. Fugardi from my California Software division of Winner Industries. Not the first time I've ever ditched a meeting with him, so he's come to expect it. It pisses him off, to be sure, but most of his 'emergency' meetings are over such piddly affairs that I don't like to bother myself with them. So I figured that they'd be want to follow me to that meeting, thinking I'd be there today, to keep an eye on my activities."

"So your decision to go to the Aquarium was to throw them off your trail, since you suspected they were hovering over you?"

"Exactly," Quatre breathed, shaking his head. "Room's got to be bugged. Or the new Mercedes is being electronically traced."

"I doubt that. I ran over it this morning to make certain there weren't any tracking devices on it."

"Then maybe it would be best to avoid our hotel…"

Trowa sighed, shaking his head. "You might be right. Where to go instead?"

"To the hotel you and James occupied when you were first here. Do remember where it's located?"

"Yes, I do," Trowa groaned. "Fabulous. You want to meet up with him, don't you?"

"He should be back there by now, planning his next maneuver."

"What if he's already gone on to the next step of whatever it is he's thinking of doing?"

"Then we'll have an empty hotel room all to ourselves, won't we?"

Trowa subconsciously gulped.

Reaching forward, he let his fingers brush over the buttons of the radio, seeking the power switch to flood the car with something besides the sound of his own pounding heart and his companion's soft humming.

His eyes settled on the rearview mirror as he leaned forward. They widened considerably.

Three sets of headlights were gaining on him quickly.

Pressing his foot to the floor on the accelerator, he scowled. 'Rude California drivers. Always have to crawl up on your-'

He swerved violently as a gun barrel emerged from the passenger side window of one of the pursuing cars, seen only by the flash of light that came with the discharge of the weapon.

The passenger side mirror exploded. Both boys stared at it in horror.

"Go, Trowa, go!" Quatre yelled, staring at him with panicked blue eyes.

"I'm going!" Trowa barked even as he slammed his foot against the floor, praying that he'd be able to outrun their pursuit.

As the needle edged towards 160 mph, he looked into the mirror and realized that trying to outrun them would be more difficult to do than he originally thought. They were still right on his tail.

-- 22:18, Yesterday --

Trowa slowly lifted his head away from the steadily deflating airbag. His first instinct was to shake his head to ward off the parade of dancing stars that circled it, his second to check on his partner.

Quatre groaned from the floor of the passenger side, having been pinned firmly into place by the deployed airbag, which had fortunately not taken his head off with its violent eruption from its storage place.

"You alright?" Trowa quietly asked.

"Surprisingly yes… what happened?" Quatre shakily whimpered.

"We… went off the exchange."

"And we're alive?"

"Yeah…" Trowa breathed as he stretched, his foot touching the accelerator. He gasped and gripped the wheel, his foot leaping off the pedal as the car lurched forward. "And we landed upright," he said in obvious shock, his voice carrying what could almost be defined as a laugh.

"Trowa?"

"Yes, Quatre?"

"Remind me to buy Mercedes in the future. Fuck Bentley."

Trowa nodded once, his hands lightly caressing the steering wheel. "I'm sorry for thinking you were a piece of shit earlier. You're a good car."

"Trowa, let's get to that hotel before they pick up on the fact that we're still alive. And before the authorities arrive to investigate this mess."

Trowa nodded. "Sure thing."

The injured, battered remains of what was once a Mercedes Benz began to hobble down the freeway as quickly as it could on its bent axle and its one deflated tire.

-- 02:46 --

Trowa frowned as he stepped out of the beaten vehicle he'd been forcing to roll down the freeway for the last approximate four hours. His arms crossed over his t-shirt-clad chest, bare arms going goose-pimply in the chill of the night, he walked around the vehicle to stand by the silver Harley Davidson V-Rod that sat in the same parking place he recalled James landing it in when they'd returned from his impromptu meeting with Xavier Johnson in the low desert outside of Barstow.

"Apparently he's still here," he murmured to himself. "Meaning I'm going to have to deal with him once more. But also, this means that we might be able to garner some information from him, as he always seems to be on top of what's going on concerning this supposed 'game.' Might be advantageous."

"He's not here," Quatre called as he walked towards him, his careful footfalls carrying him from the hotel's office towards the wrecked Mercedes and the tall youth that stood by it. "He hasn't checked out yet, but there's been no activity on his room key since you two arrived at two in the afternoon four days ago. The day before you two met me at the beach, actually."

"You're serious?" Trowa questioned, arching a brow. "The last time this door was opened was when we returned from the mall?"

"Apparently, if that's what you were doing at two in the afternoon about four days ago," Quatre said with a nod.

Trowa experimentally tried his room key.

The light flickered green.

'I'll be damned. He really hasn't checked out. And he hasn't been back since we departed together. That explains why the motorcycle hasn't moved since he parked it after getting that other car to carry his surfboard to the beach.'

The pair of them walked into the room. Trowa stared, eyes wide.

The room laid in complete disarray as he remembered it being. Opened packages of Macaroni and Cheese sat on the small kitchenette's sink counter, their yawning tops pointed towards the door, the walls, the mirror. The microwavable rice cooker and pasta maker they'd purchased for the sole purpose of cooking their precious Mac and Cheese sat on the table that occupied the small hotel room, its orange contents showing the spread of mold across its lumpy, hardened surface. A half-emptied bottle of 7-up sat opened next to the bed by the far wall, and a package of Oreo cookies laid opened on the bed.

Trowa wandered over and stuffed one of the now stale cookies into his mouth before continuing to look around the room.

Beer bottles were scattered everywhere around the room, sitting on the dresser, the table, on the nightstand and peeking out from under the bed's ruffle.

Trowa shook his head, wondering why exactly they'd seen fit to chase housekeeping away and leave cleaning to themselves.

'Oh yeah, because we were afraid of our stuff being infiltrated. Because we're both paranoid as hell, for the right reasons.'

Shirts laid sprawled across the floor, sleeves spread in disarray. Jeans were piled in a massive heap in the corner by the microfridge. The pungent smell off old beer and cigarette ash permeated the entire living space, seeming to have seeped into the walls themselves.

"Nothing's been touched."

Quatre hissed softly, walking towards the dresser, shaking his head. "Then he really hasn't returned. I know he wouldn't be one to leave something like this behind, though. Maybe he was intending on returning and got held up?"

"Maybe he had something to complete before he returned."

"Might be in trouble."

"I doubt that," Trowa said with a shake of his head and a frown on his lips. "Mr. Waverly seems very capable. He's probably out doing whatever it is he does when he's not involved with one of your plots."

"But if he were, he would have taken this…"

"Who cares? Let's take it. We can use the extra fire power."

Quatre frowned and sighed but took Trowa's advice anyway. His arms sagged under the weight of the Springfield Armory SAR-8 (1). "Extra firepower, Trowa? You realize this isn't for combat use."

Trowa smirked and nodded. "I know exactly what that's used for, and I know that the moment we find out who's behind this I'll be putting that to use."

Quatre simply nodded.

"It's one hell of a sniper rifle, isn't it?"

"Sure is."

-- 03:05 --

Trowa sighed as he pushed the small microphone into his ear channel. Fingering the device, he turned the volume switch up a notch.

He wasn't receiving anything but static at the moment.

'Did Xavier find the bug James placed?' he silently wondered, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over at his partner.

Quatre laid curled on his bed, his upper body bare of the soft fabric of his stained shirt but wrapped heavily in gauze and ace bandages. Sprawled on his stomach, his right arm laying limply by his side even as his left curled around his pillow to cuddle it fondly, he offered Trowa a clear view of the bandages that had begun to show the slightest tinge of discoloration caused by the slow leaking of the wound they covered.

He'd bound his blonde companion as well as he could, using what few medicinal supplies he could find in the pig sty he and James Waverly had temporarily called home.

Neosporin, gauze and ace bandages were all he could find.

'The man didn't even have the decency to get some Band-Aids,' Trowa thought as he huffed in disgust.

A few Motrin would have been nice, too. Something to ease Quatre's obvious pain as he attempted to sleep.

Thanks to Quatre's quick action, the wound had already formed a nice clot by the time Trowa was forced to attack it with a pair of tweezers and a wash cloth. The bullet he'd pulled had impacted smoothly on the bone that laid underneath Quatre's deceptively hard muscles, failing to burrow into the hard white material, instead flattening its nose upon it.

A 9mm bullet. Standard tip.

Something loaded into a handgun.

Trowa reflected on the attack at the Aquarium, frowning as the realization that he'd failed to hear a single sound preceding the ping of the bullet bouncing off the metal rail bare inches before Quatre's body settled into his brain.

A handgun with a silencer, then.

Something that could easily be carried into a public place. Something that could possibly make it past the lax security around the commonly peaceful family museum. Something very unlike the huge, monstrously powerful and deadly accurate weapons that were scattered around the hotel room he was sitting in.

Nothing like the M-4 (2), which as indicated by its collapsible stock and its giant night-vision telescope sight and stand to support its massive weight when taking aim while sprawled across the ground was definitely not a civilian model.

Nothing like the fully automatic Calico Liberty 100 Carbine Series rifle (3) with its 100 round magazines and its silencer screwed onto the end of its barrel.

Nothing like the DS Arms SA58 rifle (4), another fully automatic weapon, with its OZ serial number still printed across its butt.

It had been an assassin's weapon, but one that had to be used at close range.

Trowa silently thanked whatever god would listen to him for that fact. It had made their pursuer a bit sloppier, having the additional pressure of being in the area its target was in, having the additional worry of being discovered settled upon its head.

If it had been someone truly well equipped, Quatre could have been removed from across the rooftop of the Long Beach Civic Center across the street.

If it had been the assassin he used to room with, his blonde companion would have been dead.

Trowa turned up the volume on the receiver as the static finally broke.

He narrowed his eyes as he listened to the conversation that poured over the microphone in the absence of the loud engine noise that Trowa realized had been dominating earlier.

"He failed?"

Trowa narrowed his eyes. 'Xavier.'

"- s, he d i-. They ma – ip away in do – n," a voice Trowa failed to recognize said, breathing just outside of the small receiver's limited range for clarity.

"Hmm. Well, this is pro - ng to be an interesting de - ment, isn't it?" Xavier's voice answered, before continuing with, "And wha – f the other one?"

"Se – red, for th – me bei -."

"Perfect."

The loud roar of the engine being started was nearly deafening. Trowa quickly fished the microphone out of his ear and tossed it onto the table, rubbing his ear after it exited the channel and wincing. Reaching over, he calmly turned the receiver off.

'Secured…?'

'Interesting development?'

'What the fuck is going on?'

Trowa scowled. 'He lied, of course. I knew that. James knew that and told me as much. They were trying to abolish any trust between us…'

'Maybe to separate us…?'

'Secured….'

'What kind of a world of shit are we in now?'

Trowa laid his head on the table, staring out the window, his eyes focused on the pristinely clear night and the twinkling stars that littered the black expanse of sky outside as Quatre's soft breathing warmly echoed in his ears from behind him.

_tbc..._

1) Springfield Armory SAR-8: Caliber: 7.62 MM, 308; Action: Semi-Automatic; Barrel: 18"; Weight: 10 pounds; Length: 40.38"; Stock: Synthetic; Price: POR (price on request: IOW, expensive!); Misc: Features include: protected front post sights and rotary-style adjustable rear aperture.

2) Baer Custom Ultimate AR M-4 Flattop Model: Caliber: .223; Barrel: 16"; Stock: Civilian model standard stock, law enforcement model available with collapsible stock (used in fic); Finish: Baer Coat finish on upper, lower barrel and free float system; Price: $2,195; Misc: Jewell 2 stage trigger standard (optional single stage trigger available (used in fic), LBC 4-way free float Picatinney rail system (12" standard), guaranteed to shoot 1/2" groups (1/2 MOA), many optional equipment features are available for the state-of-the-art M4.

3) Calico Liberty 50 & 100 (used in fic) Carbine Series: Caliber: 9mm Para. (50 or 100 (used in fic) round magazines); Action: Semi-automatic (adjusted – locking pin removed, made fully automatic for fic) retarded blowback, CETME type; Barrel: 16"; Weight: 7 pounds; Length: 34.5" overall; Stock: Glass filled, impact resistant polymer; Finish: Black and phosphate; Price $860 to $925; Misc: Helical fed magazine, ambidextrous safety, static cocking handle, rotating sear/striker block safety.

4) DS Arms SA58 Rifles: Caliber: 308 Win.; Capacity: 20 shot detachable box magazine; Barrel: 16.25"; Weight 8.25 pounds; Length: 38.25"; Stock: Synthetic; Finish: Military matte black; Price: $1,595; Misc: Features include: last shot bolt hold open, elevation adjustable protected post front sight and tilting block locking system.


	11. Chapter XI

Review replies:

Pandora-chan: I'm glad you liked these two chapters. I like action-packed, myself. (grin) As for listing gun prices, I just copy right out of Guns and Ammo – the prices are quite old by now. I'm betting that they've gone up. (whimper) But I don't think there's anything against posting them – just gives an average thought as to what Tro's wielding compared to what the super-spy owns. (shrug)

Yurikitsune: Wow, you always write such thorough reviews! I feel privileged. (smile) Piano is technically a string instrument. (nodnod) I can understand the confusion, though! Hammers striking strings is almost leading towards percussion. Quatre with a sax is a sexy thought (Trowa proceeds to drool profusely). As for Tro in denial… I think he's just shy, personally, even though Quatre's told him point-blank how he feels. (laughs) Kind of like saying it makes it that much more real. I don't know. And I _like_ Quatre the 'I'm serious, then I'm flirting like mad, and now I'm sulking before I flippantly suggest we watch a movie!' It reminds me of how he acted with Duo around in the series. The sudden swings from 'I'm happy and smiling at my friend and now I'm contemplating life, the universe and everything while pouting cutely' was irresistible. (cackle) Stiches - yeah, they suck. I've gotten more than a few in my lifetime. (sigh) No shooting - mine were due to an incident with a knife. (grimace) And _personal experience_ with deploying airbags? Yeouch. Glad you made it through alright. (whimper) My old car never deployed – until the radiator got shoved into the engine block and the air conditioning compressor got mashed into the cooling fan (blasted SUV, slamming into my innocent Metro and running away), it was never considered totaled because the airbags never came out. (hangs head in despair) And no need to apologize for getting off topic. I really don't mind. (smile)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and therefore I have no money. Ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_By starlight I know you  
as lovely as a wish granted true  
my life has been empty, my life has been untrue  
and does she really know, who I really am?  
does she really know me at last  
dead eyes, are you just like me?_

_By Starlight_

-- 10:54 --

Trowa lifted his head from the cradle his arms had formed on the hardwood table that occupied the small hotel room he sat in and yawned loudly. Wincing, he reached behind himself with a stiff hand and rubbed the back of his neck in a vain attempt to work out the vicious knot that had formed at the base of his skull with the awkward sleeping position he'd assumed earlier that morning after he'd put away the receiver box he'd utilized to listen in on James Waverly's target, Xavier Johnson. A quick glance to the empty bed reminded him why he'd chosen to use the table as his sleeping station, even though his brain now was screaming at him to forget that it was ever occupied by the single man he most loathed yet was forced to vaguely respect in the entire universe and was home to more beer bottles than the trash can was. Another rub on the back of his neck encouraged him to rise from his seat and stretch the rest of his body, knowing that it would take quite some time to work all the kinks out of his lanky frame that had without doubt formed during his nearly seven hours of slumbering in his uncomfortable position.

Stretching, he cursed under his breath as practically every muscle in his body screamed in vivid protest to his movement and the bruises he'd acquired with the accident he'd been in the day before made their presence well known. A stiff-legged waddle carried him from the table to the bed previously occupied by his prior partner and his eyes narrowed as he looked it over. 'It wouldn't be so wrong or terrible. I'll just clean off the comforter. It's guaranteed to be a hell of a lot more comfortable than that stupid chair.'

Movement on the bed he used to claim soon drew his attention, dragging his gaze from the rumpled, beer bottle covered bed to the stirring lump under the warm comforter and sheets that were sprawled over the soft mattress. A frown touched Trowa's lips as he watched his blonde companion toss and turn. 'He's going to rip his arm apart if he continues with this. It's only bandaged; we should really get some stitches into that this afternoon.'

Walking over to the other bed, he stiffly bent at the waist and attempted vainly to straighten the rumpled edges of the comforter that covered the stirring lump.

Soon he was staring at his hand, wondering why it had moved of its own accord to rest atop what he presumed might be Quatre's arm. Gently giving the shape underneath the thick covers a squeeze, he sighed and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"Why would anyone be after you, Quatre?" he mused quietly to himself. "Why would anyone be out to destroy a businessman? Is it as you thought? Is it because you're one of the primary representatives of the Colonies during this time of tenuous relations, pushing for complete disarmament and peace?"

"Or is it some other reason altogether? I wish you'd tell me everything that you know is going on; I'd be able to better protect you if I had something to go off of."

"Or is it that you don't really know what's going on that you don't tell me anything? Are you trying to give me some illusion of confidence and calm by portraying that you know what's happening when you truly don't?"

A small sigh escaped Trowa's lips as he leaned over, looking at the small, pain-drawn brow of his partner. "I promise I'll find out what's happening, Quatre. Because you don't truly seem to know."

"If that lousy bastard was still here, he'd probably be able to fill me in on something of importance. Makes me wonder where he is."

-- 03:10 --

Trowa turned up the volume on the receiver as the static finally broke.

He narrowed his eyes as he listened to the conversation that poured over the microphone in the absence of the loud engine noise that Trowa realized had been dominating earlier.

"He failed?"

Trowa narrowed his eyes. 'Xavier.'

"- s, he d i-. They ma – ip away in do – n," a voice Trowa failed to recognize said, breathing just outside of the small receiver's limited range for clarity.

"Hmm. Well, this is pro - ng to be an interesting de - ment, isn't it?" Xavier's voice answered, before continuing with, "And wha – f the other one?"

"Se – red, for th – me bei -."

"Perfect."

The loud roar of the engine being started was nearly deafening. Trowa quickly fished the microphone out of his ear and tossed it onto the table, rubbing his ear after it exited the channel and wincing. Reaching over, he calmly turned the receiver off.

'Secured…?'

-- 11:12 --

'Secured….'

Scratching his chin with his free hand, his right still laying on the covered blonde's arm and tenderly holding him still, Trowa closed his eyes.

'They were speaking about Mr. Waverly, I'll bet. And by 'secured' they have him. He's been captured. Or he returned to them to report to them….'

'But if he's working in conjunction with them, he would probably have been the sniper at the Aquarium. Quatre would be dead. Of that, I'm certain; that man is more competent than whoever it was that struck at us.'

'Getting information from him is obviously out of the question. I have to do this on my own.'

'I HAVE to find out what's going on.'

Lifting his legs off the floor, he swung them onto the bed and curled beside the now still body of his companion, draping his arm fully over the thin body. It stirred slightly before a pale skinned hand pushed the top of the sheets down and freed a blonde-haired head with tired blue eyes from their folds. "Nm?" Quatre grunted quietly, his eyes unfocused but attempting to stare at what he presumed was Trowa.

"I…" Trowa started before his voice failed him completely. 'What am I thinking?' his brain screeched in horror, taking into account his movement and his current position on the bed with the blonde.

"S'kay," Quatre's sleepy voice cooed as it caressed his ears. "Other bed stinks of beer, neh?"

"Yeah," Trowa quietly agreed.

With the slightest of nods, Quatre let his good arm snake under Trowa's body, shielded from contact by both sweatshirt and sheets. Snuggling close to his taller companion, he laid his forehead against Trowa's chest and sighed with content.

Trowa lightly petted the blonde haired head as Quatre drifted off to sleep and sighed quietly. 'I'll figure out what's going on. I'll protect you from whoever's after you.'

'I promise.'

-- 14: 26 --

Trowa walked behind Quatre, his hands stuffed in his jeans' pockets, glancing almost nervously from side to side. They were once again on the streets, this time in Los Angeles, and were approaching a large office building.

Earlier Quatre had told him that they had to head out in order for him to meet with the representative he was supposed to meet the day before, when they'd skipped his meeting to visit the Aquarium and had fallen under attack. Mr. Fugardi from the California Software division of Winner Industries, Trowa recalled. Though why he suddenly felt compelled to see this man had slipped past the green-eyed ex-pilot completely.

Entering the plush lobby of the office building, Trowa relaxed slightly as Quatre merrily whistled and made his way to the receptionist's desk. "Is Mr. Fugardi in his office, Brenda?" he chirped, eyes closed and a friendly smile on his face.

"I'll page him for you, Quatre-sama," she quickly replied, reaching for the phone handle and letting her fingers dance quickly over the keypad that handle was connected to.

Trowa glanced around their environment, taking in the view with a stoically straight face.

The ceiling, nearly 10 feet over their heads, shined brightly with the reflected light from the chandeliers that hung from it, their images and those of everything that dwelled below them perfectly mirrored in the glass panels that were the ceiling's covering. He stared for a moment at his own reflection looking down at him before letting his eyes rove elsewhere, taking in the grandeur of the spectacular modern art masterpiece prints that decorated the eggshell colored walls, their silvery frames sparkling with the gentle amber light that poured from the silver-colored, simple and crystal-lacking chandeliers above. Large plush chairs, all eggshell in color to match the walls and contrast sharply with the dark burgundy carpeting with its intricate black whirling pattern reflective of the swirls presented in those paintings on the wall, were situated around small round dark wood tables that carried magazines and a few pages of newspaper on their surfaces. A vending machine with soda sat beside one loaded with snack food off to the east wall, behind a potted plant that made the otherwise out of place machines blend in with the rest of the room. A few more potted plants – miniature trees and yucca plants – were sporadically placed here and there, adding a bit of green life to the otherwise plainly colored and dead though spectacular room.

Another quick glance around allowed Trowa's stance to completely relax. There was nowhere large enough for any potential attacker to hide in this room. Drawing his hands out of his pockets, releasing the haft of the Davis Derringer he always carried with him, he cracked his knuckles and walked over to the vending machines to buy himself a Coke and a Twix.

After acquiring what he wanted, he strolled easily back to Quatre's side and waited patiently with him by what he assumed was the mirrored door to an elevator for Mr. Fugardi to arrive.

Soon, the resounding 'ping' that signaled the elevator's arrival rang through the immediate space around the door. As it slid open, a balding middle aged man who Trowa assumed was this supposed head of Quatre's Software Division in the California state stepped out of the comfortably sized chamber and wiped his brow. "Where were you yesterday, Quatre-sama?"

Quatre let his friendly smile remain upon his face, his eyes opening to regard the man before him. "Oh, come on. I don't get to come to California all that often. I went sight seeing because the weather was absolutely perfect."

Trowa crossed his arms, watching Mr. Fugardi carefully. A shorter, stocky man who stood perhaps five and a half feet in total height, he was sweating slightly at Quatre's merry proclamation and narrowing his dark brown eyes. Running thick fingers through the ring of brown hair that still remained upon his otherwise smooth skinned head, he let an exasperated sigh escape his heavy chest.

"Really, Quatre-sama," Mr. Fugardi grumbled even as he dropped his arm, shaking it slightly to straighten his dark gray business suit jacket's sleeve, "you must take a little more responsibility. If your father knew you were neglecting your duties for your own pleasure, he'd be-"

"Rolling over in his grave if he had one, I know, I know. But I think he'd agree with my reasoning in this case. You forget – he often tried his damnedest to escape work at times as well."

"Well, yes. But can we please dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business, Quatre-sama? I have a good deal of business I need to discuss with you."

"Of course," Quatre said with a small nod. "Let's get up to your office then, neh?"

"Right this way."

"I know the way. You don't have to remind me," Quatre laughed.

Trowa simply followed, staring incredulously at the boy as he accompanied his associate into the elevator beyond.

'That smile upon his face is nothing more than a lie, is it? He's truly agitated and annoyed; his frustration with this situation is so easily seen in the way he has his fists clenched and how he's digging his shoe's tip into the carpet.'

'Why couldn't I ever see through this mask before? Why didn't I ever realize that it was a cover to show the world?'

'How many times has he used this on me in the past?'

Trowa bowed his head, staring at the carpet as his thoughts seethed about in his brain. 'He's just like I am, isn't he?'

Daring a glance, he frowned.

Though he was smiling, Quatre was staring straight ahead at the door before them. His eyes, their dark blue-green color reflecting the light that danced down upon them from the florescent bulbs that claimed the perimeter of the mirrored ceiling and shown from behind the panes of shining reflective glass that made up the walls and the top of the transportation chamber, failed to shine with a life of their own.

'Those eyes; they're completely dead.'

Glancing into the mirrored door before them himself, Trowa stared at the reflections that met his gaze.

'Just like mine.'

The door opened, destroying Trowa's view of their reflections and allowing the smiling dead-eyed blonde and his business partner to depart the elevator for the hallway that now ran before them, heading straight for the door at its very end and the office it held behind its protective shielding.

Trowa frowned as he followed.

'He's not as I remember him. The last time I saw him, his eyes were bright and beautiful, shining with the spirit and life that had almost been stolen from him by Ms. Catalonia's rapier. They shined with glee and merriment. Before that they glittered with determination and fierce desperation.'

'Now they shine with nothing at all.'

'He's still as lovely as I remember him being, but something's changed….'

'Has your life been empty these last few months as well, Quatre? Has it been as untrue as my own?'

"Are you just like me?"

-- 12:51 --

Trowa crossed his arms over his chest as they stood in line, waiting for the people in front of them to finish their orders and move to the pickup line.

Quatre chewed on his bottom lip, perfect white teeth leaving small indentations in the light pink flesh as he stared at the menu. "What are you ordering, Trowa?" he chirped, glancing over.

"A number six," he replied, having made up his mind minutes ago.

"A monster burger with fries? Mmmmm… doesn't look half bad."

"Don't tell me you're going to order one yourself."

"Nah, I'm looking more at a number nine or a number two."

"Go with the chicken strips instead of the super star."

"Alright," Quatre said with a nod before quickly adding, "Relax, will you?"

Trowa arched a brow. "With what happened yesterday, you think I'm going to relax?"

"They won't strike this soon."

"You never know, Quatre," Trowa quietly warned.

Huffing quietly, the blonde crossed his arms over his chest before stepping up to the counter. "I want a number nine and a number six," he ordered, forking over the money to pay for their meals when asked for it.

Trowa returned to his surveillance of the fast food restaurant. Thus far, nothing seemed out of place. No one was acting suspiciously or nervously, nor was anyone bothering to give them a second glance.

For the moment, it seemed they were safe.

Moving to the pickup line, Quatre huffed softly. "Your nervousness is drawing more stares than I am, Trowa. Calm down."

"I can't help it," he softly grunted. "By the way, how's your shoulder doing?"

Grimacing slightly, the blonde shook his head. "I could really use something stronger than Motrin, but I'll live. The stitches you put in are holding."

"You don't have to worry about that. I've done plenty of dental-floss stitches through the course of my life to know how to do them properly. They won't slip."

"That's quite a skill to have," Quatre said with a wry smirk. "Where'd you pick that up?"

"When I traveled with my mercenary corps during my childhood."

"Ah, I see. Then it was a skill learned more out of necessity than anything, wasn't it?"

Nodding, Trowa leaned against the planter that separated the high-traffic ordering and pickup area and the eating area of the Carls Jr. restaurant they were in.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice barked right behind him, "Quatre-sama! What grand luck!"

As Trowa tried to regain the rhythm of breath he'd lost with the shock that had pounded into him, Quatre turned on his heel and smiled brightly. "Ah! What a coincidence! What are you doing here?"

A bright smile lit the dark-skinned Arab's face as he pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to peer over their darkened lenses at the blonde and his taller companion. "We've been looking for you, to tell the truth. Rasheed told us to scour the area for you after you missed yesterday's meeting. We were just stopping for a bite to eat."

A smile sneaking across a moustache-bearing lip, the bespectacled man's partner chuckled. "And here I'd tried to tell Abdul that we should continue on with our search instead of stopping. We might have missed you entirely."

"Indeed," Quatre said with a grin, walking around the planter to slip into a seat next to Ahmad. "Then this is a truly lucky meeting, isn't it? But tell me, why are you out looking for me? You could have simply called me."

"We could have simply called you if you had been carrying your cellular phone, Quatre-sama," Abdul said with a smirk and a shake of his head.

"Oh yeah," Quatre said with a giggle as he rubbed the back of his head with his off-hand.

Noting the clumsy gesture, Ahmad narrowed his eyes slightly. "What's wrong with your right arm, Quatre-sama?"

Trowa glanced over his shoulder. "He was attacked yesterday."

He failed to react as Quatre set an icy, seething glare on him.

Both Arabs were instantly out of their chairs, hovering over Quatre, attempting to mother him and check him over while chastising him for getting himself hurt and for not calling for their aid the moment he knew he was in danger.

Trowa shook his head and stepped forward to receive their order. After fetching the food-laden tray, he walked over to the table that the furiously flushed Quatre was seated at and put it down on its surface, stealing the beverage cups away to fill them at the fountain.

As he returned, he arched a brow as he listened to their conversation.

"So why are you really here?" Quatre quietly asked.

"Rasheed though it best that you know that someone's been showing interest in your properties back home," Abdul said, his voice soft and barely audible, his eyes dark and serious as they retained their gaze on the blonde's face over his sunglasses.

"My properties…?" Quatre gasped.

Ahmad leaned back in the plastic seat he'd returned to after Quatre had shooed both of them off of his person and sighed. "They didn't find what they were looking for. We repelled them from your lands before they could."

"But what's troubling us is that they knew to look there in the first place," Abdul grunted.

"They haven't been tied to me yet, have they?" Quatre grumbled, rubbing his temples.

Abdul shook his head. "No. Your properties still technically belong to the Maganac Corps. However-"

"They knew where our home is, and knew what they were looking for."

"Yes," Ahmad confirmed before taking a sip of his soda.

"Move it," Quatre said simply before unwrapping his burger. "I don't want anyone else's grubby hands on my stuff besides yours and mine."

"We're already doing such. Auda's securing your storage unit as we speak."

As they all fell silent, Trowa simply blinked, his mind reeling with the information he'd just heard.

'Your properties? Don't tell me they were talking about….'

Quatre looked over at Trowa and sighed quietly. "We'll discuss this later."

"You mean this is something I'm allowed to know?" Trowa questioned.

"I believe you've already got it figured out, and would just like a little bit of confirmation."

Trowa blinked once. 'I see.'

The remainder of their time in the fast food restaurant was spent in silence as they ate and drank what they'd purchased. Soon the quartet was moving towards the door, two to the battered Mercedes they'd driven in from the low desert and the other two to a white rental Chevrolet Cavalier.

"Keep in touch with me concerning this, will you?" Quatre softly asked as the two tall Arabs marched towards their vehicle.

"Of course, Quatre-sama," Abdul said with a friendly smile. "You don't have to worry about this at all. Just take care of yourself while we take care of the rest. You can depend on us."

"I've never doubted that I can count on you, my dear friends," Quatre said while bowing his head. "And Trowa will help take care of me in your place. Please, do not worry about me any more than you already have."

Both men nodded, Ahmad turning to Trowa and setting a gaze upon him that screamed 'if you fail in your duties to protect Quatre-sama, we shall hunt you down and stuff your testicles down your throat if we're feeling merciful at that moment.'

Trowa nodded. "I will protect him," he quietly assured.

Satisfied, the two got into their car and left the parking lot.

-- 22:30 --

Trowa arched a brow as he watched over Quatre's sleeping form, staring as he cuddled his pillow as if it was another person and calmly drooled onto its case-covered surface. Trowa shook his head as he rose from his chair and walked as silently as he could through the rubble and cascade of laundry and beer bottles that still littered the floor of the Barstow-located hotel room to the edge of the plush queen-sized bed his blonde partner occupied to tug the sheets he'd wrapped himself firmly in straight and tuck them in around his small frame.

Laying a hand upon the tiny boy under the covers, Trowa sighed quietly.

'God, I wish I really knew everything that was going on here. First, some unknown force that won't bring itself into the light for us to see is hunting Quatre. Second, Mr. Waverly's gone missing without explanation. Third….'

'Third, the Maganac Corps is having to move Sandrock Gundam because someone's been searching for it.'

'This is deeper than you've made it out to be, isn't it Quatre? It's more complex than even you know.'

'That's why you aren't telling me anything. Because you truly have nothing to tell me. Because you're playing this game one move at a time, and you haven't yet determined your enemy's playing style so you can't formulate a strategy yet.'

'That's why you're abandoning your companions on the board – because you're too busy trying to figure out your enemy's motives and your enemy's next move to pay attention to every piece on the board, focusing instead of whoever has the most power and most availability to strike out against whatever's threatening you.'

Frowning, Trowa lightly brushed blonde bangs away from a pale skinned face, listening to the calm breathing that seeped from the form buried in the warmth of the comforter.

'That's what you were showing me on that board.'

-- 20:10, 2 days ago --

'His play was so incredibly sloppy. Why? What was his focus?'

'Or was that his point? That he has no focus, and he's simply blindly running about in a vain attempt to stop whoever it is that's striking out against him with no plan or focus because he also has no clue what's really going on?'

'Or was his blatant lack of concern for all of his pieces because he was focused only on using the queen for his moves? Because every piece he could utilize he made certain became a queen?'

'Because, maybe, he sees himself as being alone against whoever is attacking him? Because he's running scared from an enemy who could crush him if he made a single wrong move? Because he's scampering under the gaze of an enemy who's waiting for him to try to shield his companions from it, to expose himself to danger instead of protecting his own hide, to crush him completely?'

'Because aren't you, Quatre… aren't you always the most powerful yet most readily sacrificed piece on the board?'

'All those other times we played, it was the queen that found its demise on the board, allowing the pawns and rooks and knights to complete the work it had started, following the directives you'd already plotted out in your skull.'

'Is that why you had the influx of the queens? Because they represent yourself? Because….'

'Because you're alone?'

Setting his stare upon the small boy, Trowa crossed his arms over his chest.

Quatre arched a brow. "Think you learned something?"

"Never underestimate you, especially when it looks like you're defeated."

A small laugh escaped the blonde. "That wasn't the lesson I expected to teach."

Trowa smirked slightly, nodding once. "Right. But you have to admit, that was a merciless way to end things. You could have shown a little caring before you crushed me like a bug."

A frown touched Quatre's lips. "Shown mercy…?"

"Yeah. As much as you showed the soldiers you faced when you first arrived on Earth, at least," Trowa jokingly said, his green eyes shining in the newly instigated room light, him having turned on the lamp that hung over the table as the sun's dying rays had finally slipped from the window and left the room dark.

Bowing his head, Quatre shook his head. "There is no mercy like that anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"That our lives change with the progression of time. They change inevitably and forever. And the more you change…"

Trowa waited calmly for him to finish.

"The less you feel. The less you care. The less you are concerned with what happens around you, as long as you survive to see tomorrow."

Emerald eyes widened.

'The game… he truly was abandoning his companion pieces. He was striking out on his own, leaving them to their own devices to flounder and die or run and escape as they saw fit. That can't be! That's not… that's not like the Quatre I know. The Quatre I know would take the blows meant for his companions before abandoning them. That's not our Quatre. That's not the Quatre that sent me that recording. That's not my Quatre… that can't be true!'

"Believe."

'No.'

-- 22:31 --

'It wasn't that you're being ruthless or purposefully abandoning everyone. It's that you're lost, your confused, and you're running scared.'

Closing his eyes, Trowa bowed his head. 'I promise I'll try my damnedest to figure out what's going on, Quatre. I'll find out why they're really after you. I'll find out who 'they' truly are.'

'I promise you this. Because you've placed your trust in me. Because, as you said in that letter you sent me, you love me. And because….'

Leaning at the waist, he dared to set a small kiss to the sleeping blonde's cheek, careful to keep the touch light enough to not disturb him in his slumber.

'Because I love you.'

_tbc..._


	12. Chapter XII

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and therefore have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_The world is a vampire, sent to drain  
secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames  
and what do I get, for my pain  
betrayed desires, and a piece of the game_

_Bullet With Butterfly Wings_

-- 22:22 --

Trowa narrowed his eyes as he peered through the high magnification binoculars at the car that sat in the parking lot approximately two hundred yards away just outside of the brightly lit pub that was the only bright spot on the otherwise dark Fresno street at that time of night.

It had taken him two days. Two long, torturous days of tracing signal after signal, plotting travel paths and reading coordinates rebounded off of the local satellites to locate the person he now considered his 'prey' in the city of Fresno, which laid a good two hundred and forty miles away from the remote hotel room he'd shared with Quatre in Barstow. From one desert to another had he ridden the Harley Davidson V-Rod, having abandoned the nearly useless and thoroughly destroyed Mercedes in the parking lot of that hotel that seemed so many millions of miles away.

He still harbored doubts about this maneuver. He'd abandoned Quatre, going directly against the almost stringent orders that had been placed upon his person by the only other person involved in the investigation behind who was responsible for the aggressive attempts on the blonde's life. He'd abandoned him without word or warning that morning in Barstow, leaving naught but a note proclaiming that he would be back within a couple of days and instructing him to sit tight until he returned.

'Why did I do that?' Trowa silently questioned, shaking his head. 'Of any of us, he's the most headstrong. Without someone there to keep him out of trouble, who knows what he'll get himself into….'

'Shit. Movement.'

As the door of the pub swung open, Trowa leaned forward in his seat, gripping the motorcycle's strong metal handlebars to support his frame.

He gulped, sweat beading upon his forehead as he saw his target emerge from the establishment.

He recognized far too well the six-foot tall form, thin and lanky in its seemingly traditional or customary white t-shirt and acid-washed jeans combination, head topped by shortly cropped brown hair spiked with styling gel. The figure, apparently unaware that it was being observed, turned to its partner and opened his wide, thin lips to continue with a conversation hat had very likely begun within the confines of the bar.

Turning his attention to Xavier Johnson's companion, Trowa found himself huffing softly in annoyance. It was a person he did not recognize.

Standing as tall as the lank spy by his side, this man was a bit heavier set in the shoulders. Wearing a dark trench coat and jeans coupled with a t-shirt who's color blended in too well with the dark shades of the fallen night to be properly discerned, he was more of a shadow beside his partner for everything but his hair, who's blonde locks which had been swept into spiked, flowing bangs off to the right side of the man's face veritably glowed with the florescent light that spilled from the gaudy beer advertising signs that hung in the pub's windows. His stride was precise and calculated, worlds different than the strolling, casual stroll his walking companion adopted. Hands stuffed in the deep pockets of his trench coat, this man looked cautiously from side to side as if seeking those who would be overly observant of their departure from the drinking establishment, far to the contrary of his almost lackadaisical companion.

Trowa frowned as they continued to speak, silently cursing his inability to read lips as a distance of two hundred yards even when assisted by high power binoculars.

The two men walked to the Ford Taurus that Xavier had rented, Trowa rested his finger against his ear, pressing the small microphone he had stashed in his channel more firmly into place. As their voices came in crystal clear over the small device, the emerald-eyed ex-pilot felt his lips turn with an angry frown.

Xavier's voice was the first to merrily chirp out, "Yeah, they apparently have subverted us somehow. We found him trying to dodge our little trap."

"How very annoying. So what you're telling me is that this person you'd hired to assist you in eliminating him is working against us?" the voice that belonged to the person Trowa had failed to recognized growled quietly.

"Unfortunately. And he's gotten the person he claimed was going to be his field assistant to trust him explicitly. Unfortunately it would seem that the brat is better protected for my efforts."

"You're disappointing me, Xavier," the other man warned.

A quick laugh escaped Xavier, recognizable by its slightly higher pitch than the other voice had. "I know, I know. But don't worry about it. I've got more than one plan, my dear friend. I won't fail. The kid will be dead by the end of the month."

"You'd better see to it," that other voice hissed softly, "or you'll be dead by the end of the month. The man I'm working for doesn't like long delays, and he doesn't like lame excuses. You've been screwing us over, and our patience with you is beginning to wear thin."

"Give me a little more time. James'll spill. He'll know exactly where they're located. And if I play my cards right, he'll lead us right to them."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I get to do what I've been praying I'd be able to do to him since I first started having to work with him," Xavier said softly.

"I'll kill him."

-- 09:25, Yesterday --

It had been three days since the bold strike against Quatre at the Aquarium of the Pacific, and still they were hiding in the hotel room that Trowa and James had originally occupied upon their arrival in Southern California. The two adolescent boys had hidden in that room, almost terrified of leaving the establishment, worried that by some off chance the attackers who'd moved so suddenly and unexpectedly had followed them and were simply awaiting their emergence into the light of day.

To wile away the time that slowly plodded morosely about them, the pair had been indulging in television and aimless chatter.

"I'll bet you my shirt that the Bills score the next touchdown."

"You're on," Trowa said with a slight smirk turning the corners of his lips even as his eyes remained glued on the screen, watching carefully the arrangement of the players on the bright green field.

"And I'll bet you that we're being overly cautious."

"No way in hell."

The blonde sighed quietly, shaking his head. "Call it cabin fever. Call it being antsy. Call it whatever you want. I want to leave this place, Trowa. Do you realize how many meetings I've missed? Mr. Fugardi's probably leaving messages up the wazzoo on my cellular, which is STILL in my old hotel room."

"I'm not going to risk another attack, Quatre," Trowa said, glancing over as the referee blew his whistle, calling an off sides penalty on the Chargers. "Until I'm certain that whoever your attackers are aren't in the area, I don't want us leaving."

"But…!"

"No buts."

Crossing his arms, the blonde huffed. "You're being entirely unreasonable. I was unprepared when that occurred. I'll be ready this time. And you'll be prepared as well. See? I've nothing to fear."

"I'm not going for it, Quatre."

"Don't tell me you're going to make me sit here and wait!" he whined.

"Yep."

"I need my phone. What if James calls?"

"Use this phone to call one of your lackeys. They'll be able to get it, won't they?" Trowa asked, arching a brow.

"They aren't my lackeys," Quatre huffed.

"Then what do you call them?"

"Loyal retainers."

"As said, lackeys. Call the one with the sunglasses."

"Fine," Quatre said with a snort, reaching over and picking up the phone's handle. Quickly typing in a phone number, he crossed his arms and waited.

Trowa shook his head at the blonde's peevish behavior before turning back to the television set.

Quatre suddenly got a dark green turtleneck deposited on his head.

"Huh?" he gasped, reaching up to blindly grope the fabric and rip it off its golden nest. Staring at it, he blinked in confusion before turning a questioning gaze to the now shirtless boy on the bed with him.

"The Bills scored."

Sticking out his tongue, Quatre sniggered. "Told you they would, silly. Ah! Abdul! You finally picked up!"

Trowa lost the conversation as the blonde switched languages, speaking to the Arab on the other end of the line in their native tongue. Turning back to the television, he sighed and continued to watch, his mind turning the information he'd been gathering over the last few days over and over.

'He might be right. They might not have followed us out here.'

'But if they did, they could simply be biding their time. Perhaps waiting for us to make a run for it, or to meet back up with Mr. Waverly, or go to one of Quatre's meetings. That strike at the Aquarium… it was entirely uncalled for. Either a tactical maneuver that resulted in failure, or a mistake made by someone who was entirely too ambitious.'

'Which still brings up the question of who exactly is out to take Quatre's life. And how they knew where to look for him. And why they're after him in the first place.'

Glancing over at the easily chatting Arab, he frowned. 'Is he right in his suspicion that he's voiced; is this all because he's taking part in the newly forming government of the Earth Sphere United Nation, fighting for peace between the Earth Sphere and the colonies that circle it?'

'If that's it, then it doesn't make any sense. Why strike against him? Relena Dorlain is as loud and present as he is in declaring that peace should rule, and she takes as much a part in the peace processes as he does when it comes to establishing new policies and procedures.'

'Why Quatre Raberba Winner? Is it because he's a representative from the colonies? Or….'

'Is it because he was once a Gundam pilot?'

Trowa shook his head. 'Can't be that. To the Earth Sphere, the pilot of Gundam 04 is still and forever will be an unknown in the flow of the history of the Eve War. The Maganacs have already confirmed that Sandrock is still technically their property in the eyes of those who've shown interest in its existence.'

'And so where does the interest in his Gundam play into all of this?'

Rubbing his forehead, he leaned back, returning his focus to the television, trying to lose himself into the less perplexing intrincities of the game that played on. 'I wish I had a few answers. I wish I knew what was going on.'

'I wish I could truly help you.'

The phone clicked onto its base behind him. Without turning Trowa asked, "They're going to get your phone?"

"Yeah," Quatre said quietly, crawling along the bed to sit beside him once again. Turning his gaze to Trowa's face he frowned slightly, his gesture washing his face in a blanket of concern. "I know nothing either. Please, stop troubling your mind about this. If we sit on our brains all day and simply try to figure all of this out without actively seeking information, we're going to be running in circles and coming up with naught but the conclusions we've already reached."

Arching a brow, Trowa glanced over. "How did you know…?"

A calm shrug moved Quatre's shoulders. "I just do. Now please, do relax. There's nothing we can do at this moment than play into their hands and see what move they'll make next."

Trowa narrowed his eyes.

"After all, even in the most perfectly played of games there must be sacrifices if one's to see what their opponent's strategizing."

As the boy's quietly spoken words registered in the emerald-eyed boy's mind, Trowa felt his lips turn with another frown. 'And just who is that sacrifice supposed to be, Quatre? Me?'

'Or is it you?'

'That won't be allowed. Not so long as I am here. Not so long as you're in my care.'

"Can't always be safe in this life, Trowa," Quatre softly said, closing his brilliant blue eyes. "After all, it's only for a sacrifice of pain and the betrayal of our deepest desires that we get a piece of the game. And only once we sacrifice ourselves can we ever hope to escape this board and fly from this horrible plot that envelops us all…."

Trowa snarled.

And, unable to take Quatre's soft proclamations that he would indeed be the sacrifice offered to those who hunted him for the simple prize of information and resolution, he did the only thing he could think to do to silence him.

The blonde froze, eyes wide, as Trowa took his lips with his own.

Many a long minute passed before they finally separated and Trowa brought himself to look into the smaller boy's eyes.

A frown took his lips, even as he softly said, "You're staying put."

"But-" Quatre began to complain.

"No buts. If information is what you need, then information is what you're going to get."

Nodding once, Trowa crossed his arms.

"We can't wait on Mr. Waverly's call. You remain here. I'll go find out who's after you and why."

"But why…?"

Trowa let the smile that threatened to tear at his lips slowly leak out. "Because."

"Care to expand on that?"

"Because I feel like it."

-- 20:10, 9 Days Ago --

Turning a curious eye to his companion, Trowa frowned. "So-"

"We're here," James interrupted with a nod. "Best head on inside before it gets much colder, kid."

A clip of a nod indicating agreement was all that Trowa gave the longhaired man before he delicately pushed against the door of the ransack little shack. As the door creaked loudly, he eased himself inside.

The door clicked shut behind him, effectively separating him from the world that existed outside and the man whom had made his life a living hell barely a half year ago. Trowa sighed quietly, his shoulders drooping from their taunt position with visible relief at being away from that man.

"Shit, I didn't think you'd actually come," a voice chirped out of the darkness.

Trowa froze. He'd known that this person would be here. He'd known that he was meeting yet another shadow from the past, one who had been involved in the events that had turned his life upside down on what had seemed to be nothing more than a simple mission all those months ago, turning that data recon trip into a nightmarish brain-demolishing escapade into the warped plotting of the Romafeller Foundation and the equally eclectic plans woven by the blonde he'd found himself caring deeply for. Still, that knowledge didn't ease the shock of that sudden meeting any.

Turning on his heel, he stared. 'He's just as I remember him. Nothing's god-damned changed,' Trowa's mind silently hissed.

Standing easily before him, a gun in hand and a smile upon his lips, Xavier Johnson motioned to a chair. "Please, over there. And let me pat you down for weapons first, yes?"

"Of course," Trowa softly said, inclining his head slightly to look the taller man in the eyes. "Provided you put your weapon down first, Mr. Johnson."

"Ah, so you do remember me?" Xavier said brightly, his lips curling into a cheerful smile.

"I could never forget any of you three, no matter how hard I try."

"I suppose I should be honored," the older man laughed, shaking his head as he put his gun back into its holster at his side and bent a the knee to pat Trowa's legs, searching for any hidden weaponry at his ankles and the tops of his boots.

Enduring the quick pat-down silently, the boy frowned. "I was brought here to hear what you have to tell me concerning what's occurring with Quatre Raberba Winner. I expect that you're going to tell me everything that's relevant?"

"Wow, that certainly killed any chance for small-talk," Xavier said with a chuckle.

"I'm not here for small-talk. I don't care how you are or what you've been doing for these last six months."

"Alright, point taken." His smirk still upon his lips, the man slipped into a chair and shook his head. Leaning against the table, his elbow resting firmly against its top, he pressed his cheek into the cupped palm of his hand. "You do already know that there's someone after the life of Quatre Raberba Winner, don't you?"

"I've been allowed to be aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here," Trowa said with a snort.

"Alright. There's some suspicion that it's a radical terrorist group who opposes to the peace promotion that he's heading. They want him out of the picture to throw the Earth Sphere into chaos and utilize that situation to begin another war, one which would possibly secure them a foothold at the head of rule on its termination."

"Something like what Romafeller originally intended?"

Xavier chuckled. "More like what Dekim of the Barton Foundation had dreamed about."

Trowa let his eyes widen.

"Yes, I know all about Operation Meteor. Don't be so shocked, kiddo! Despite what that jackass outside has told you, I'm not as incompetent as I look."

"I never believed you were incompetent for a moment," Trowa truthfully admitted, narrowing his eyes. "I believe you, like Duo, play the part of the chipper fool to turn people away from the suspicion that you actually know much more than you let on. You hide your knowledge, your awareness of the situations that surround you, and your intellect behind a mask."

Arching a brow, Xavier finally let his lips fall from their smile. "I see."

"Please, continue. What group is this, and why are they only targeting Quatre? Certainly Relena Dorlain would be as much of a probable target for such a purpose."

"Well, here's what I know. From what my employer has told me, it's not simply because he's a representative in this fight for peace. It's also because he's from the colonies. The same stigmatism isn't held towards Ms. Dorlain as she's a simple earthling, and can't be held to the expectation to understand the pain and the loneliness experienced by the colonies as Mr. Winner should be able to. He's become Earth's lap dog, and the people are angry."

"And how does your employer know this?" Trowa asked softly.

"Because he's been petitioned by this organization to join them in their quest to overthrow the current reign of the Earth Sphere and assist in their rise to power."

"And how could your employer do this?" he pressed on.

Xavier shrugged as he calmly confirmed, "Because my employer was once CEO of a weapons manufacturing enterprise. Though he's since turned his plants to colony-based manufacturing in an attempt to assist in the repair of the damages done during the battles of the last few turbulent months that preceded the Eve War, his reputation as a weapons manufacturer remains rather widely spread and well known."

Trowa arched a brow and frowned. "And why would this person be concerned for the continued welfare of Mr. Winner? Certainly he could make more profit from turning to weapons manufacturing once more."

"My employer is not a person who wishes for war, Mr. Barton. He, like most other people in this new era, is enjoying the taste of peace and the joy of doing something to benefit people rather than doing something that brings harm to the innocent populous. And he has had the wisdom to see that Mr. Winner's assassination would indeed bring about the turmoil this terrorist organization is striving for, and being a fan of the boy who's very company has assisted his own in their combined efforts to bring peace and quality life to the members of the colony population, he wishes for his continued existence."

"Mr. Winner's subsidizing him?"

"Yep."

Trowa rubbed his forehead. 'Very round-about story, but it all makes sense. Damn. What if he really is telling the truth…?'

"And what's the name of this organization?" Trowa ventured.

"You know them well enough. They're the remnants of the White Fang."

Trowa felt his eyes widen considerably as he nearly choked on his own breath of air. 'No… no way!'

"And one more thing," Xavier calmly continued, "you'd best watch yourself."

"Why do you say that?" Trowa attempted to calmly ask.

"Because the man who was responsible for their introduction into the chaos near the termination of the conflicts at Christmas, who was partially responsible for assisting Quinze with their initial establishment, is working with them once again."

"What do you-"

"Mr. Waverly, Mr. Barton. Mr. Waverly, working with Sedici, was responsible for the assassination of Colonel Tsuberov, for the overtaking of Space Fortress Libra, and for the rise of the White Fang."

Trowa narrowed his eyes. "There's no proof of-"

"Will a security video from the Libra be proof enough?"

And Trowa stared as the television monitor flickered on and the tape began to play, carefully reading the movements of the persons' lips to catch what they were saying at the moment that tape rolled.

-- 21:59, 91 Days Ago --

Turning away from the screens, James Waverly walked calmly towards the doors that occupied the rear of the large control room he was in, passing with casual ease amongst the scurrying, busied soldiers that inhabited the cramped spaces of the station with him. And, in passing, he nodded quickly to the soldier known simply as Sedici.

Brushing past the strong-jawed man, James nodded once. "Now's the time. Let's try to stop the flood from flowing where it's not wanted."

"Think we can?" the other man softly whispered.

"No. But we can slow it before the damage to our plan is too great to recover from."

"Got'cha."

A quick wink of a hazel eye and a muttering of "Glory to you, White Fang. Hopefully Tsuberov will cooperate," ended their conversation as James hurriedly left the room.

-- 22:31 --

Trowa rolled the motorcycle into the parking lot, the headlights spilling their bright radiance over the pavement before him. Frowning as he noted that his entrance into the lot was rather obvious, he made his way towards the rental office in a vain attempt to make it look as if he were simply a customer looking for a place to stay for the night.

Helmet firmly on head, he walked towards the office. A breath of relief escaped him as Xavier Johnson and the man who'd accompanied him left the car without giving a single glance to his direction, apparently either having not noticed him or not truly caring.

'Alright, you lying son of a bitch,' Trowa's brain growled, 'let's see what you're up to.'

Abandoning the helmet, he slipped away from the office door and instead headed towards the hotel room he'd seen the pair dive into. Leaning against the thin hotel room's door, he calmly pressed a high-powered microphone to it and listened.

"So where is he being held now?" the man who Trowa didn't know asked.

"Lyssa has him in Santa Barbara."

"Fabulous. And his partner?"

Xavier's voice sighed quietly, its bright and cheerful edge finally leaving it. "Hell if I know. He slipped our clutches. Killed a few of our men, too."

"Most unfortunate. Well, do continue looking for him."

"You know I will. No worries in that. Never once before has a pesky fly escaped my grasp. It's not about to start happening now."

"I'm counting on you," the unknown voice calmly stated.

"I know."

Trowa dove into the nearby bushes as he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He glared as the blonde man left, hands buried in his trench coat's pockets. Trowa's eyes narrowed even further as he observed that man getting into a rather nondescript black Honda Civic.

'Great. Like I haven't seen a fucking million of those on the roads!' Trowa's mind spat angrily.

Remaining for only a few more moments until he reasoned the coast was clear, he stood and walked over towards his motorcycle and his abandoned helmet, his feet scraping along the pavement in an expression of his frustration and disappointment. "Fabulous," he quietly spoke into the cool night air, "they've separated. So either I can get onto my bike and follow that mystery man to only God knows where and try to learn something about this entire fiasco from his interactions, or I can follow Xavier and find out what's going on with his end of this mess. Damn it all."

"Having some problems there, mister?"

Trowa's heart nearly stopped. Turning on his heel, he stared.

Behind him, as black as the night itself, a lank figure walk towards him with an easy, strolling gait. Violet eyes pierced the dark shadows that surrounded them both, glistening from under the veil cast over the heart-shaped face by the soft fall of chestnut colored hair that glistened in the faint light that spilled from the hotel office's interior.

A casual wink and a cheerful smile met Trowa full on, even as slender fingers found their way to the end of a long, trailing braid and twined into it, tightening the black twist-tie that held the immaculate weave intact. "Fill me in on what's going on and why exactly one of my dearest friends went calling me in the middle of the night pleading me to help you out, and I'll take that guy in the hotel room. No payment, no problem. Call it a one time special."

_tbc..._


	13. Chapter XIII

Review replies:

Yurikitsune: Thanks again for the reply! And even if it gets cut off, I still appreciate the fact that I receive such thorough reviews from you. :) It's nice to know people are paying attention to every little detail. Sorry to cut this reply short, but I've got to get a whole bunch of stuff done before deployment… nngh. Nngh, I say!

Pandora-chan: What kind of sequel to 'Once' would this be if Duo didn't pop up in one way or another? The boy refused to be left out. (smirk) I bet later on, though, he regretted it. Oh! Spoiler. I'm stopping right now. As for a DH side story, there's a bit in this tale that should get you smiling – and if I end up actually finishing the plot one year, there will be plenty more to satiate you. Thanks for reading and reviewing! (huggle)

DISCLAIMER: I in no way own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I'm simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Your strength is my weakness, your weakness my hate  
my love for you just can't explain  
why we're forever frozen, forever beautiful  
forever lost inside ourselves_

_Thru The Eyes Of Ruby_

-- 11:01 --

Trowa bowed his head in an attempt to blend in as much as was possible with the milling crowds that surrounded him while still keeping his gaze focused on the tall, strongly built blonde man in the brown business suit before him. Following at a distance at which he could be discrete and unnoticed, the ex-pilot struggled to keep up as the man wove through the crowd with relative ease and the obvious aura of worry trailing in his wake. He apparently was running late for his flight.

It had been a long night for the green-eyed boy, which only heightened the intensity of the struggle he was having attempting to tail the man without being noticed. First, a night spent outside of a hotel room in a city called San Dimas hiding in the bushes and keeping himself conscious so he wouldn't chance missing his newly found prey's exit had left him with cramps in his legs, a crick in his neck, and scratches on his arms that he swore would be the death of him if only due to the itching they caused to race along his tender skin. It had been a cold desert night, and exposure to that chilly air both in the bushes and on his motorcycle had done nothing for his comfort and indeed had begun the development of a cold.

Trowa blew his nose into a hanky he'd mysteriously acquired and moved on, his puffy eyes narrowed.

After that long night in those unforgiving bushes, his prey had bolted from the room, muttering something about being late as he jumped into his car. It was all Trowa could do to get onto his motorcycle and follow the driver, praying he wouldn't be seen or suspected as he mimicked the black Honda's errant weaving through traffic and attempted to keep an eye on it.

Then he'd ended up in LAX, one of the most notoriously crowded, unfriendly and noisy airports on the West Coast of the North American continent.

He'd been trailing this unnamed man for two hours now, watching him go to the ticket booth, following him through the security checkpoints, tailing him to the lobby. And now, he was following him to the gates that lead to flight 3349, a non-stop high-speed space flight bound for the LSAS, the Lunar Space and Air Station.

Perhaps it was the cold uncomfortable night that grated on his nerves, but more likely it was the knowledge that he was about to lose his most convincing lead on the plot to murder Quatre that he'd yet discovered that made him as irritable as he was that morning.

Trowa cursed under his breath as he came to rationalize that he had only two choices. One was to go back to Quatre and confirm that the boy was indeed safe and not running amuck, getting himself into more trouble than he could escape from. He could do as he was directed to do by the man he'd first worked with when he'd been dragged into this fiasco, who was now apparently captured somewhere in Santa Barbara by their shared enemy.

Or he could follow this new lead to the truth behind the assassination attempts on his friend into the depths of space, leaving Quatre in the capable hands of Duo Maxwell.

As he slid around yet another person that impeded his progress, he scowled, reflecting on everything he'd learned thus far.

-- 20:21, 10 Days Ago --

"I'm not here for small-talk. I don't care how you are or what you've been doing for these last six months."

"Alright, point taken." His smirk still upon his lips, Xavier Johnson slipped into a chair and shook his head. Leaning against the table, his elbow resting firmly against its top, he pressed his cheek into the cupped palm of his hand. "You do already know that there's someone after the life of Quatre Raberba Winner, don't you?"

"I've been allowed to be aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here," Trowa said with a snort.

"Alright. There's some suspicion that it's a radical terrorist group who opposes to the peace promotion that he's heading. They want him out of the picture to throw the Earth Sphere into chaos and utilize that situation to begin another war, one which would possibly secure them a foothold at the head of rule on its termination."

"Something like what Romafeller originally intended?"

Xavier chuckled. "More like what Dekim of the Barton Foundation had dreamed about."

Trowa let his eyes widen.

"Yes, I know all about Operation Meteor. Don't be so shocked, kiddo! Despite what that jackass outside has told you, I'm not as incompetent as I look."

"I never believed you were incompetent for a moment," Trowa truthfully admitted, narrowing his eyes. "I believe you, like Duo, play the part of the chipper fool to turn people away from the suspicion that you actually know much more than you let on. You hide your knowledge, your awareness of the situations that surround you, and your intellect behind a mask."

Arching a brow, Xavier finally let his lips fall from their smile. "I see."

"Please, continue. What group is this, and why are they only targeting Quatre? Certainly Relena Dorlain would be as much of a probable target for such a purpose."

"Well, here's what I know. From what my employer has told me, it's not simply because he's a representative in this fight for peace. It's also because he's from the colonies. The same stigmatism isn't held towards Ms. Dorlain as she's a simple earthling, and can't be held to the expectation to understand the pain and the loneliness experienced by the colonies as Mr. Winner should be able to. He's become Earth's lap dog, and the people are angry."

"And how does your employer know this?" Trowa asked softly.

"Because he's been petitioned by this organization to join them in their quest to overthrow the current reign of the Earth Sphere and assist in their rise to power."

"And how could your employer do this?" he pressed on.

Xavier shrugged as he calmly confirmed, "Because my employer was once CEO of a weapons manufacturing enterprise. Though he's since turned his plants to colony-based manufacturing in an attempt to assist in the repair of the damages done during the battles of the last few turbulent months that preceded the Eve War, his reputation as a weapons manufacturer remains rather widely spread and well known."

Trowa arched a brow and frowned. "And why would this person be concerned for the continued welfare of Mr. Winner? Certainly he could make more profit from turning to weapons manufacturing once more."

"My employer is not a person who wishes for war, Mr. Barton. He, like most other people in this new era, is enjoying the taste of peace and the joy of doing something to benefit people rather than doing something that brings harm to the innocent populous. And he has had the wisdom to see that Mr. Winner's assassination would indeed bring about the turmoil this terrorist organization is striving for, and being a fan of the boy who's very company has assisted his own in their combined efforts to bring peace and quality life to the members of the colony population, he wishes for his continued existence."

"Mr. Winner's subsidizing him?"

"Yep."

Trowa rubbed his forehead. 'Very roundabout story, but it all makes sense. Damn. What if he really is telling the truth…?'

"And what's the name of this organization?" Trowa ventured.

"You know them well enough. They're the remnants of the White Fang."

-- 22:46, Yesterday --

"But on a more serious note," Duo interrupted, scratching his chin, "isn't this remindin' you of what happened… ya know…?"

"Six months ago?" Sighing quietly, Trowa crossed his arms. "Almost."

"But not quite, 'cause it seems like it's a totally different plot, right? I mean, instead of Quatre bein' the aggressor now, he's seemin' to be the hunted, yeah?"

Trowa nodded in response.

"But… think about it, Tro. There's still some nefarious purpose goin' on, right? Someone's still tryin' to do somethin' that we're tryin' to stop, and those two jackasses who made our fuckin' lives miserable are in all over it. I mean, they weren't in on anythin' 'xcept what happened that time, yeah?"

-- 11:20 --

A frown taking his lips as he continued to jostle through the uncooperative crowd after his escaping prey, Trowa mentally snarled. 'What if Duo's right? What if this really IS a continuation of what began those six long months ago? If it is, then how does it all tie together?'

'And if it is, would HE have denied it?'

-- 10:50, 7 Days Ago --

"Obviously. I'm asking what you're reading from the conversation, not what they said. I know exactly what they said, just as you do," James Waverly snorted.

Remaining silent for a few moments, Trowa's emerald eyes matched the hazel stare of his companion. "They've been lying to me, attempting to get me to not trust you for some reason. And they've really told me nothing, just as they've so informed you. We're both lost in the dark."

Leaning forward, gathering the device off the table with a swoop of the hand, James rose from his seat and walked to his suitcase. Dropping it onto the clothing bundled within the luggage, he nodded once. "Bingo."

"But why would they do that?" Trowa quietly mused.

Walking back to his seat, James flopped back down onto it and sighed. "Because both of us are being set up."

"Why would anyone be after me?"

"Not you, you pompous jackass. Me and Quatre."

Arching a brow, Trowa leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin upon his hands. "Why are they after Quatre in the first place, Mr. Waverly?"

"Because he's an obstacle."

"To what?"

"Their plans."

"You mean the plan?" Trowa asked, arching a brow. "The plan you're always harping on?"

"Wrong plan, kid," James replied with a smirk. "Not our plan. Their plan."

"Who's?"

"Can't tell you that."

Rocking back in his chair, his lips twisted with a scowl of frustration, Trowa grunted, "Damn it. This is starting to sound a lot like the last fiasco we were involved in."

"Why do you say that?" James asked with an amused glint lighting his eyes.

"Everything I wanted to know was something that I wasn't allowed to know. All I ever got was 'I can't tell you, Trowa.'"

A barking laugh escaped the older man. "Well, we have our reasons, you know. The more people that know, the worse it is for subterfuge."

-- 11:22 --

Trowa's mind snorted quietly. 'The plan. This supposed plan that's been behind everything that's happened to us since those events six months ago, the plan that Quatre was attempting to derail, or to manipulate to his own usage. The plan that this plan supposedly isn't a part of. What if Duo was right? What if it truly is a continuation of it?'

'Which leaves the question – what's it really about anyway? What the hell do I really know about it?'

-- 20:59, 189 Days Ago --

Trowa sighed softly. "So what is your purpose here?"

Xavier stared at the ceiling. "Since my cover's fully blown, you want me to tell all, eh?"

"You got it."

Closing his brown eyes, Xavier began to mutter quietly, "We were here to assist Quatre with his infiltration of the Romafeller society. Our mission was to discover their ultimatums and keep current on their objectives, as to better deduce the movements of OZ and to predict the actions of the Earth Sphere Alliance that would be derived in reaction to OZ's moves. To get this information to those who are in charge of your little guerilla war here on Earth so they could better direct you and assist you in winning this thing."

"Really."

"Yeah. Quatre communicates regularly with them. It's his strategies that are evaluated by them and forwarded on to you. Lately, he's just gotten approval to do as he wants… use their IP's and all to move you on his own… but that really has nothing to do with us."

"Continue on Lesley."

"Looks like he's working for the guy Quatre was after. Kesslinger's one of the guys who works directly with the Foundation. Knowing what he's up to is like knowing exactly what they're planning to do with themselves, because he's that incredibly influential."

"So he tried to kill you?"

"Chad must've figured it out. That James and I were on to him. So while you were gone, he tried to off me. Think he was also after Quatre's plans, too. We've been together, the four of us, since Blondie was fourteen. He knows the kid's in charge. He knows that the mainframe holds all the keys to what the Foundation could possibly ever want to know about the future movements of the Gundams. I tried to stop him, but I'm no match for him. Bulldozed me right over."

Trowa frowned, gripping on every word that spilled from Xavier's bruised jaws.

He left the room only after the man had passed out once more from the drugs that coursed through his body combined with the battering he'd received earlier.

-- 08:22, 188 Days Ago --

Trowa frowned, listening to Quatre.

"Kesslinger is the key to success. To know his mind is to know the mind of the Foundation. Word is that he's the ear-piece and brain behind Dermail's maneuvers."

"So that's why you've been trying to learn about him."

"I've been trying his affiliates since the self-destruct attempt that Heero pulled off." Ignoring Duo's small, discouraged sigh, Quatre continued. "It was then that I realized that the OZ organization, directed by the Romafeller Foundation, was seeking not an end to the tyranny of the Alliance as they've promoted, but rather to replace them in power to bring their constituents under their wings and sap off of the economic revenue that would be generated for them. The added boost in financial power would fund further mobile suit production,"

"And make total control of the colonies by force a feasible option."

"Correct. However, due to recent events and the obvious display of hostility towards their previously planned methods by the colonies as displayed through the Gundam attacks, they've changed their strategy. And it's because of this change that I've been attempting to learn all I can of the man who's been behind their most recent developments."

"The Mobile Doll system?"

"That, and the sudden change in their attack patterns. It's more like they're attempting to let us fade into oblivion, ignoring us while we reap havoc upon their stronghold. Like they're deliberately focusing their attention and resources to another endeavor."

"Hm."

"Knowing their intentions is the only way to know how to deal with them. As we've seen, they've already gained partial control of space… I just want to know what they intend to do with it."

"And for that, you needed Kesslinger."

"Yes. And for him, I tried to maneuver through Browens, who was a member of the Foundation Council and through Channok, who is an associate of Kesslinger's. I've been trying to figure out what he's planned, what he's leaked, what he's discovered, what he's tested…"

"Any success?"

"Some." With a mild, humble shrug, the boy sipped his coffee.

"And so now what are you planning?"

"Now I have to wait."

Trowa arched a brow.

"I have to see their next move before I act. That's all. I just fear that my lack of information about the way their planning to obtain their goals may send us astray once again. And considering the current attitude of space, I fear what the repercussions of another failed maneuver will bring us."

-- 11:24 --

'But this 'plan' wasn't only involving Romafeller's motives durin the War, was it? It was something deeper, something more substantial. Something that's got to be key, but that I have no clue about.'

'If the plan was what they told me it was six months ago, then it would have been resolved, and Mr. Waverly wouldn't still be harping on about it still being in motion. About their plan not being 'the plan' but rather some side plotting that had nothing to do with whatever he and whoever he's really working for have in motion.'

'Do these plans interfere with one another? Is that why the bastard's cooperating with myself and Quatre, attempting to stave off the attacks that have been focused on him? Or do they correlate with one another, and he's simply trying to get our trust? Or are they even involved with one another at all?'

'If they weren't, why would he be bothering with Quatre? Quatre MUST be key to the success of this 'plan' that he's been working on for so very long. But how? And is he actually aware that he's key, or is he being used without his knowledge much like Duo and I were being used during much of that fiasco and throughout most of the War?'

'Damn it all, why is it that the thing I suspect is probably key is the one thing I really know absolutely nothing about?'

His thoughts were derailed as he dodged another person dragging their rolling suitcase through the long passageway that stretched between terminal gates. Snorting, he set his gaze once again on the retreating blonde man's back and hastened to catch up.

'And what the hell does this guy really have to do with what's going on? Is he possibly the one that Mr. Waverly told me I wouldn't ever meet? Or is he just another lackey?'

-- 20:08, 10 Days Ago --

Trowa nodded once. "Going to continue? You've yet to tell me about the here and now."

"Xavier's not the one behind everything that's happening now. You, kid, won't meet that party. Xavier simply has more information than I do seeing as how he was hired directly by our employer, and thus has more to tell you. I'm more of a third party here than anything; I don't know everything that's happening on this end of the spectrum, and frankly I really don't care to know everything that's going on. This has nothing to do with what I want out of life anymore. That much I've discovered. It won't affect my survival, and it won't affect my ultimate goals. The only thing in my life it'll interfere with, so far as I've seen, is my bank account and perhaps my prospective timeline for getting certain things done."

Turning a curious eye to his companion, Trowa frowned. "So-"

"We're here," James Waverly interrupted with a nod. "Best head on inside before it gets much colder, kid."

-- 11:25 --

'He could be the one behind this entire scheme. He IS someone that Xavier Johnson's working for, but is he actually the mastermind…?'

Trowa's nearly running pace soon came to a halt, leaving him staring as the suit-sporting blonde he was trailing handed the flight attendant at the gate his ticket and hurriedly rushed through to make it to the cabin of his shuttle before they closed the vessel's hatch.

He couldn't follow if he wanted to ensure Quatre's safety. He wouldn't be able to inform Duo to seek the blonde out if he stowed onboard. He didn't have any number with which to keep in touch with the braided ex-pilot.

Gritting his teeth, he stood at the large window that made up the wall of the terminal lobby, glaring at the shuttle that pulled away from the building, slowly turning and rumbling under the power of its engines as it rolled off towards the distant runway.

'Damn it!'

-- 22:38, Yesterday --

"Having some problems there, mister?"

Trowa's heart nearly stopped. Turning on his heel, he stared.

Behind him, as black as the night itself, a lank figure walk towards him with an easy, strolling gait. Violet eyes pierced the dark shadows that surrounded them both, glistening from under the veil cast over the heart-shaped face by the soft fall of chestnut colored hair that glistened in the faint light that spilled from the hotel office's interior.

A casual wink and a cheerful smile met Trowa full on, even as slender fingers found their way to the end of a long, trailing braid and twined into it, tightening the black twist-tie that held the immaculate weave intact. "Fill me in on what's going on and why exactly one of my dearest friends went calling me in the middle of the night pleading me to help you out, and I'll take that guy in the hotel room. No payment, no problem. Call it a one time special."

"Duo!" Trowa finally managed to gasp, staring at the familiar form of the pilot of Deathscythe Hell. "Quatre called you?" he continued, once the initial shock of seeing him wore off.

"Yep. In the middle of the damned night, too. Not like I wasn't lookin' for him anyway, ya know." Plucking at the end of his braid, he let a frown steal onto his lips. "I've been lookin' for him for awhile, ya know. He's my best friend, and I wanted to meet up with him for some fun. Maybe some tea and stuff and some chatter. But he's not on schedule. He was supposed to be back home today, seein' as how he should've finished up business down here."

Trowa let his eyes widen again. "Do you typically stalk him?"

With a wild little laugh as he continued to play with the end of his braid, he winked at Trowa and flashed him the debonair smile he wore constantly during the struggles of the War. "I only stalk my friends, buddy. I wanna make certain you're all alright, ya know?" A blink of an eye passed and that smile faded slightly as he continued, "I've just lost way too many. I'm not about to go losin' anyone I consider my best friend and, well, extended family to nothing so stupid as an accident or something."

Trowa nodded. "Alright. Let me fill you in on what's going on, as far as I know."

As the tale concerning the attempts on Quatre's life and the lies of Xavier Johnson coupled with the rather unnerving participation on behalf of their old nemesis/partner James Waverly and the apparently strong but unknown motivations behind the mysterious stranger who'd had yet to have a name plastered to him rolled from Trowa's tongue, Duo's face simply continued to fall from its carefree, chipper façade into a serious, contemplative and for the most part stoic countenance.

"And my largest problem at this moment is going to be tracking down that black Honda. There are too many of them in this accursed state for me to be easily able to find it."

Duo scratched his chin, his frown still in place. "Tracking the Honda's no big deal. I've got its license plate number, and tapping into any police satelite'll give you his location as of five minutes ago."

Trowa allowed a brow to arch.

A wild grin momentarily lit the other boy's lips as he sniggered. "How is it ya think I know where all y'all are? You're easy 'cause of that damned circus of yours and Hee-chan's fuckin' impossible due to the fact that he wanders around on foot and gets rental cars. But 'Fei and Quatre? Simple. Just gotta keep tabs on Quatre's schedule, and trace the Jeep from Hell."

"I see."

"But on a more serious note," Duo interrupted, scratching his chin, "isn't this remindin' you of what happened… ya know…?"

"Six months ago?" Sighing quietly, Trowa crossed his arms. "Almost."

"But not quite, 'cause it seems like it's a totally different plot, right? I mean, instead of Quatre bein' the aggressor now, he's seemin' to be the hunted, yeah?"

Trowa nodded in response.

"But… think about it, Tro. There's still some nefarious purpose goin' on, right? Someone's still tryin' to do somethin' that we're tryin' to stop, and those two jackasses who made our fuckin' lives miserable are in all over it. I mean, they weren't in on anythin' 'xcept what happened that time, yeah?"

"Not directly."

Arching a brow, Duo let a corner of his mouth twitch. "Clarify on that, Tro. You don't have to conserve words here."

A slight narrowing of his eyes that screamed 'I was getting to that and then you interrupted me,' and a shake of his head accompanied Trowa's quiet explanation of, "Waverly was apparently involved in the rise of the White Fang. Xavier seems to have been keeping tabs on everything that occurred at the end of the Eve War. They've been playing their parts, simply without us being aware of their interactions."

"I see." Duo dropped the tip of his braid and shook his head, letting his hands find his hips and tapping his foot on the hard asphalt of the parking lot. "So what if this is a continuation of the plans that they had going during the war? They're just being more discrete about it?"

"I wouldn't know," Trowa truthfully answered.

"Three word monster?"

"…."

"Fuckin' hell, man. Some things just don't change."

"The license plate number? I don't have all night."

Nodding once, Duo slipped a scrap of paper Trowa's way. A receipt from Burger King for a shake and a Whopper Combo with a hastily written series of numbers on its back. "An' best thing is that it ain't no rental car, my friend. No Enterprise or other company sticker on it nowhere. An' I doubt a rental car would have a lollipop imbedded in its back seat an' a child carrier with punch stains on it in it, either."

Trowa nodded. "Good luck," he simply answered as he turned on his heel and walked towards his motorcycle, precious slip with information in hand.

Duo simply waved at his back before haughtily trotting into the office, slamming his hands onto the counter therein and brightly bursting into conversation with the man behind that counter as was obvious from the wide smile and rapid movement of his mouth as seen through the large glass windows that made the interior of that office visible to the outside world.

Mounting his bike, Trowa calmly took off down the road, not a question dancing in his mind about the black-clad ex-pilot and his convenient appearance nor of his capabilities.

The only question in his mind was concerning where he could quickly get computer access and track his retreating vehicle.

-- 12:55 --

Trowa dismounted the V-Rod, shaking his head. The recent disappointment of losing the man he was following was still sitting heavily on his conscious.

Walking to the door to his hotel room, he swiped the card, giving a breath of relief that three days away from the hotel had not diminished his ability to enter.

'Well, that's because it's under Mr. Waverly's name, and he isn't exactly available to check out any day soon. And because Quatre's here.'

Opening the door, Trowa peered in. "I'm back," he ventured to say into the dark silence beyond, even as he walked in.

The room appeared unchanged. However, it was unoccupied.

"Quatre?" he called out.

When no answer met him, he began to panic. Looking desperately through the room for any evidence that the boy had been there recently, he scurried about rampantly cursing the fact that with the disaster area that was contained within the hotel room's wall it would be difficult if not impossible to find any evidence of recent inhabitation, of a struggle that might have removed the recent occupant from its confines, or of anything that might have been constituted as useful information.

"What are you doing?" a voice erupted from behind him.

Trowa nearly fell over before regaining his composure and turning. "Where were you?"

The equally shocked blonde let a worrisome smile meet his lips. "Shopping for supplies. Where were YOU?"

"Looking for leads. Hey." The initial greeting finished, a frown met Trowa's lips. "You knew that, though."

"I did?" Quatre began, arching a brow.

"Of course you did. You, after all, called Duo in to help me."

The large bag of groceries the blonde was hugging protectively to his chest nearly fell out of his arms. Hurrying to the bed, he let the laden bag fall out of his now limp limbs as it desired, then turned his gaze back to Trowa. "Duo? I never called him."

It was Trowa's turn once again to be shocked. "You didn't? He told me that you'd called him in the middle of the night to come down and assist me."

"Trowa, I never made that call. I wouldn't lie to you concerning this. I don't want any of you involved in this mess that's revolving around me. It's bad enough that you're here… why would I involve Duo in on this as well, and put more of my friends' lives in danger?"

Trowa stared at the blonde, his eyes huge. "Then…."

"Someone using a voice-coder, probably. The big question is who, and for what purpose," Quatre sighed quietly as he sat down on the bed and shook his head.

Trowa silently stalked over to the blonde, and sat down beside him. "You're worried about him, aren't you?"

"Just like I was worried about you all this while. I have so few actual 'friends' to claim. I can't stand to think of any of you getting hurt or killed on my account."

Trowa sighed quietly, watching the boy's considerable emotional fortitude begin to give way, tears beginning to develop at the corners of his eyes. 'Damn it. Who did this?' he venomously mused, his internal monologue dripping with hatred. 'Who dared to upset him like this?'

Control over his actions lost, Trowa slipped an arm around the blonde's shoulder, eliciting a startled gasp from Quatre and a stiffened posture from himself as he came to realize what he was doing. Shrugging off the urge to release Quatre from his clumsy embrace, he instead pulled him to his chest and wrapped his other arm around his slim frame as well. Holding him tightly, he sighed, his breath rustling soft golden locks. "Don't worry. Duo can take care of himself."

Trowa shivered as thin fingers curled in his shirt, holding it tightly as the cherubic face pressed itself into the soft fabric that covered his chest. "I know that. But you can't accost me for being worried about him."

"Right," Trowa agreed, lifting a hand to rest atop of Quatre's head, holding him as tenderly as he dared.

In silence they sat, encased in each other's comforting embrace, forever frozen, forever beautiful, forever lost inside their own cascading emotions and inability to put them to words in one another's presence – forever lost within themselves.

_tbc..._


	14. Interlude

(grapples for the almighty intermission/epilogue piece) Just had to abuse this song again.

Note; /blah blah blah/ indicates it came from the letter (the prologue of this story.)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and therefore have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

Trowa rubbed the towel hastily over his thick hair, his eyes closed and a sigh upon his lips. The room was pleasantly warm and humid, the thick steam from his lengthy and hot shower hanging in the air like a ghostly vaporous cloud, swirling about him with any small movement sending it spiraling madly away. Large droplets of water gathered and fell from the tips of his long bangs as he squeezed his brown hair with the plush white towel, falling helplessly to splatter upon the tile floor.

Shaking his head once he'd finished vigorously rubbing and squeezing as much water as he feasibly could out of his locks, Trowa ran the thickly woven towel over the rest of his body, softly stroking his tanned flesh to lift the gathered beads of moisture from his skin. He took many long minutes in accomplishing this task, enjoying the calm atmosphere and the soft touch of the fabric against his freshly scrubbed and cleaned body, taking almost orgasmic glee in the fact that there was nothing worrying him that evening and there was no apparent reason for him to be hypersensitive in awareness of his surroundings. They were in Barstow, hundreds of miles away from their enemies, at the moment alone and not in the least bit threatened.

Walking out of the bathroom, wrapping the thick towel around his waist and leaving his still damp hair to cling to his temples and his neck and dribble water down his back, Trowa stopped as his breath hitched in his throat.

Familiar music was playing in the air, coming from the nightstand that rested between the two beds the hotel room was furnished with.

Indeed, the little RCA CD alarm clock that Quatre had purchased was on and pouring out a soft, sad melody from its tiny speakers, letting the rich piano sound in tinny notes throughout the room.

It was a song Trowa instantly recognized, one that had bored its way into his heart the first time it had ever caressed his ears with its solemn message and its heart-wrenching softness, one that he knew and could easily hum each of the harmonic dances of the flute and synthesizer while the piano's quiet drumming still rang through his soul.

His eyes drifted to the occupied bed, that which sat closest to the hotel room's bathroom and fell upon the lump that rested underneath the covers there, unmoving and breathing heavily in the depths of slumber, curled position showing that the person under those sheets was laying on his left side, favoring the injured and crudely stitched right shoulder he bore without complaint or cry. Closing his eyes, Trowa let a quiet sigh leak from his lungs.

'Why is it you still feel this way, Quatre? Even when we are together, here and now, you play this song. This song, which encompasses your hopelessness and your sorrow.

'That's what you wrote me in your letter, isn't it? That's the message you gave me.

/So now I sit, alone and lonely, at my home office desk in my house, writing to you even though I know you'll likely forget about this letter after filing away with the rest of your junk mail. You are having your happy life with that girl, Catherine, and your circus.

I envy you.

You're never truly alone./'

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Trowa gently brushed long, limp blonde bangs away from the boy's pale face, opening his eyes but a sliver to take in the sight of the young man sleeping fitfully under those thin covers.

'/I still love you, Trowa.

I fear I always will.

I wrote this song for you, about you./

'I will never forget that letter, Quatre. I will never forget the meaning behind this song.'

'So why do you play it now? Why are you so sad?'

'Someday, I will make it unnecessary for you to have to express yourself with this type of music.'

'Someday, I will abolish this song completely from your heart.'

Trowa let himself scowl as his heart desired, closing his eyes once more before he laid down beside the boy and gently draped his arm over the slender form under those sheets, taking care not to upset his injured arm.

'Of every song I've ever heard, I hate this one the most.'

'This damned, horrible song of loss and pain….'

'"Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness."'

_tbc..._


	15. Chapter XIV

Review replies:

Yurikitsune: Hey, your entire review actually made it through! Coolness! Thanks for the in-depth review of my last chapters. I'm pleased that you enjoyed them, and especially pleased that you enjoyed my portrayal of Duo. Hopefully I'll have the newest chapter (21) posted here on fanfiction. net before I leave on the med! And thanks for your glowing praise of my writing. You constantly make me blush. (blush, grin)

Pandora-chan: Ah hah hah, just wait. Everything will be answered eventually. Heh heh. Oh, I might be able to upload some songs when I get back from the med – if you're still interested next year, I can put up most of the Mellon Collie album (for a few days only) for download as .mp3's. Thanks for the review!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_And once again, you'll pretend to know that  
there's an end, that there's an end to this begin  
it will help you sleep at night  
it will make it seem that right is always right  
alright?_

_We Only Come Out At Night_

-- 05:12 --

Duo sat up in his bed, letting his long unbound waves of chestnut hair fall loosely around his shoulders and cascade in soft, thick rivers down his body. Violet eyes barely open, he yawned loudly and stretched his hands towards the ceiling, his fingers laced together and his back arched. Lips smacking, he swung his feet towards the edge of his soft bed, uncaring that he was sweeping the comforter and sheets that had encased him in their warmth throughout the entirety of the chilled night onto the dark blue and gray carpeting that covered the floor of his procured hotel room. Staggering out of his pool of fabric unintentionally deposited at his feet, Duo made his way to the white tiled bathroom of his living space, cursing loudly as his feet hit the cold ceramic flooring. "Damn it!" he whimpered. "Think that damned heater didn't work at all! Fucking hell."

Stepping as lightly across the cold tiles as he could, Duo made his way to the toilet. As he relieved himself, he grumbled and shook his head in a vain attempt to wave away the billowing cloud of sleep-induced haze that threatened to smother him once more in its comforting warmth, quietly encouraging him to retreat to the depths of the warm blankets and sheets that had encased him throughout the night and protected him from the room's seemingly inherent chill. A quiet smacking of lips left him as he flushed away his morning business and straightened himself before striding back into the bedroom of his small hotel room. Walking to the window that took the wall directly across the room from his comfortable bathroom he parted the thick curtains with slender fingers.

Glancing between those curtains, Duo smiled as his gaze fell upon the Ford Taurus he'd carefully memorized every detail of last night. Now he could finally discern its color as being forest green rather than just something very, very dark.

Nodding, he let the curtain fall back into place and walked over to his small duffel bag. Pulling a fresh t-shirt from its depths and a stained but clean pair of jeans forth as well, he tossed them onto the bed and gathered the small heap of fabric that was his clothing from last night into his arms. He tossed that laundry into the bathtub along with the boxers he was wearing. A few moments later, bathwater was running and suds were forming as the liquid that poured from the spotted silver faucet beat violently against the granules of Tide that Duo had dumped in with his black ensemble from last night.

Flopping down in his chair, naked as can be, the long-haired youth grabbed the remote for the aged television set that sat across the room from his table and chair assembly upon the hotel room's dresser. Turning the channel immediately to Cartoon Network, he smirked as Dexter's Laboratory flickered brightly across the screen.

Turning his eyes towards the curtain as the cartoon played on, he nodded. Forest green Fort Taurus with a dent in its left fender three inches behind the wheel hub, with five spoke hubcaps and dark gray fabric interior, license plate number GTF4108. Cracked windshield wipers, too, along with a slightly scratched passenger-side mirror casing. The car had seen a bit of action. That bit of action ensured that it would be all the easier for him to trace.

And the fact that he was tracking someone he'd seen before made his mind rest all the easier. He, after all, wouldn't be losing someone as memorable to his photographic memory as Xavier Johnson any time soon. No, the man was going to have to pull the impressive or the impossible to abandon this little follower.

After all, this man was threatening his best friend. He'd threatened the blonde that Duo held so closely and dearly to his heart that he held a veritable obsession with keeping track of his whereabouts, poisoning the young heir's brain with fear and terror to the point that he'd been forced to call his shadowy lifeline that continually stalked him through the Earth Sphere system for assistance.

Duo had lost far to many people in his life, as he'd told Trowa before they'd parted ways the night before. The kids he considered to be both family and friends in the street gang he was part of during his youth on the L2 colony clusters were long gone, washed away by the sweeping waters of time that had dragged them to the darkness of death with the decent of the plague through their run down, sociologically abandoned ghettos or that had swept them off to foster homes and happy families that welcomed them with open arms and smiles and refused to return them to the orphanage that had supported them after their ramshackle hovel they used for shelter had been demolished. They lived lives under different names, amongst ordinary people doing ordinary things. Even if he were to find the few who'd survived to this day, making it through the travesty of war and sickness to find themselves in these supposedly prosperous times, he doubted he would retain any ability to recognize them for who they were. He'd changed significantly over the past years, so it was quite reasonable to assume that those he'd claimed as friends, family and foe as a young boy marred with the dirt of the street would have done so as well.

The church and everyone he'd known and hated and loved in its confines were destroyed, the memories of his times in its echoing halls all that remained of that once glorious structure flooded with love and warmth. The kindly Sister Helen was lost to the clouds of the heavens, spirited away by the God of Death from the solid misery of the colonies sprung from God's Earth. The old priest who'd accepted him despite his foul attitude, despite his proclamations that the God the Church was dedicated to didn't exist, despite his flamboyant disobedience and lack of will to cooperate with any set regulation, had been murdered while preaching the value of peace to the soldiers who had taken him and those within the Church's confines hostage with the intention of utilizing the holy grounds for a hiding place and to those soldiers who had come to eliminate not only their captors but those with whom they assumed their enemies associated. A false declaration of allegiances had seen the priest, his clergy, and every other resident of that house of love and spiritual wellbeing dead from gunshot wounds or the touch of flame, mutilated by fallen beam or toppled brick wall.

Many of the men and women he'd come to know over his years wandering as a vagabond about the L2 cluster and beyond had perished during the war, victims to the continued violence of the Earth Sphere and her colonies. The Sweepers, while a tough group of individuals, weren't as invincible as many would have liked to assume they were, falling victim to the vacuum call of space and the heat of fire as they manned the ill-fated Peacemillion on her final flight through the sea of darkness, stars and particle-beam bullets that was the ocean of space. Even the twisted and crazed scientist he'd come to know after being captured during his first romp on board the giant experimental spacecraft Peacemillion, who'd instructed him in the Arts of Warfare and the methodologies behind Mobile Suit piloting, who'd provided him with the means to attain his partner Deathsythe Hell and with the missions he'd followed to spawn the war that had brought what everyone assumed was world peace had been lost to the savagery of battle, his flesh burned by fire, his bones eaten by the rabid jaws of explosions and his blood drained by the vampiric chill of the breathless bounds of space.

Everyone he had touched had died or left his life, effectively dying in his eyes as they were to never be seen or heard from again.

But Duo had learned to accept what had happened in the past. After all, he couldn't have expected any different outcome, could he? He was the God of Death, Shinigami incarnate. All he touched, all he loved, all he turned the emotions held in the depths of his black heart to were doomed from the moment his attentions found them.

Very few escaped its touch. Very precious few lived after he'd turned his eyes their way. Lady Une had already been scared by Death's touch, judged worthy by its twisted design to continue her life as the forgiving soul she had become with the death of her heart, of her Treize-sama. Hilde, his dear friend, was a business partner. Even Shinigami recognized that his mortal incarnation needed to work, to eat, to have shelter to continue existing, and that the woman he worked with assisted him in maintaining those basic human necessities. Such is why Duo assumed she had been spared. Lucrenzia Noin was a good friend, but she was also a soldier. She continued Death's work when called, being part of the Preventers organization that hunted the hunters of innocents and peace, earning reprieve from the Reaper's clawed hand. Others, like the Dorlain girl, lived because of their necessity to the world and its developing peace. Or perhaps she lived because of her fierce protector, or because she secretly had an unannounced sliver of jealousy in Duo's black heart that Shinigami found amusing and continued to perpetuate by not snatching her off to the black Abysmal Hell that awaited all souls he clutched in his icy grip.

The four pilots who rode in their metallic demons of war with him through the battlefields Earth, space and colonies supplied seemed entirely exempt from the touch of the dark God and needed no excuse like those others he had already mused over, thriving under its bloodied eyes rather than writhing and fading like a fire-touched flower. Perhaps it was because they had done Shinigami's work, escorting the souls of hundreds, thousands, tens and hundreds of thousands to the black abyss that awaited the dead. Perhaps it was because they were just as diabolical as he was, killing without judgment and striking without mercy.

It would explain why none of the four pilots had yet to die.

Heero, Duo assumed, was practically untouchable even by the thin and reaching skeletal fingers of Death. He was the Perfect Soldier, the escort of Death, a dark angel sent to the realm of mortals to usher souls to their appointed place in the great circle of spirits that swam the cosmos. He and his war-spawned and terrifying machines, the hawkish Wing and the archon Wing Zero, had brought terror and destruction to the masses in the name of Peace, satiating both mortal craving for calm and serenity and the eager lapping of the Grim Reaper for souls to fill his coffers.

Much of the same could be said about Wufei, the Dragon who's jaws had stolen the lives of scores of men, who's fiery breath incinerated souls without mercy. And Trowa the enigma, who's stoic face showed no emotion as he performed his fated task, feeding the hunger of darkness without care, without mercy.

Quatre was the one Duo constantly worried about. He was the gentle one, the innocent one. The one who had not met Shinigami's mortal shell by gunpoint or by raising a weapon, but rather by questioning what fate the boy was following and if it coincided with his own. When the pilots had scattered to the winds after Wing exploded in a flowery blossom of fire and fury, spreading its angel wings to the heavens in an act of defiance against those who would see the young messengers of Death fail in their tasks, it had been the blonde desert prince who had taken the boy with the death tainted and blackened soul into his home, trusting him with his secrets, his life. He was the one who cried for those he murdered, who's tears held within their vivid globes emotions long forgotten or abandoned by the other demons of War who fought at his side. The one who showed mercy when he could, who struck only when necessary, who pitied with his heart and cried in pain with his soul every time he had to cut another life down. The one who, even when enraged by the Zero system beyond the point of reckoning and driven to the darkness that consumed the four who he considered his comrades in the battle he participated in, had cried subconsciously, his soul spilling its sorrow even while his War-enraged mind was hazed to those tears' meaning.

Duo feared for Quatre. He was afraid that the dark spirit of Death that eagerly clamped its hands over all he loved and revered would strike against the boy he considered to be his most loyal friend, against the one who unlike any other held such friendship in his heart that it almost made that deadened organ hurt in happiness to think of him. The blonde was the only one who didn't draw thoughts of enigmatic lack of care or the pain of abandoned, discarded love when he reflected upon him. One he held in his heart with love, though that emotion carried with it loneliness and pain. Everyone else he carried with friendship and merry memories crafted in the shadows of conflict and the crimson of spilt blood. Many who he considered friends found a shadow of caring in his heart, but none so intense as that held for the boy who Duo knew would be the first of the five messengers of the Reaper to fall just by the fact that he was too forgiving, too sweet, too kind to survive in a world tainted with the ghastly vapors of Hell. Where the others thrived in this environment, paying it no special attention and no mind, the innocent's angelic wings molted and drooped, their white color stained by ash and blood.

Shaking his head, the youth sighed. 'Damn, I'm getting morbid in my old age. Sixteen really does wonders for the overactive imagination.' A smirk crossing his lips, Duo rose to his feet and walked to his bag. It was getting a bit chilly in the room – apparently, that lousy heater he'd turned on last night didn't work at all even though it was noisily rumbling away from its spot under the window, spewing musty dust into the barely stirred air.

Pulling his boxers on following with his jeans, he stretched one more time to shake the remainder of what sleep clung to him like cobwebby spiders' threads. Staring at his reflection in the mirror that rested against the wall next to the television, he blinked a few times before sighing.

Quatre was in deep, deep trouble. He could feel it in his bones. He had been feeling it for quite some time. The call he'd received last night had just been a confirmation that he'd never wanted to hear.

That was why he'd made it to Fresno, California so quickly. Because he'd already been in the area, searching desperately for his blonde friend.

Already searching. Duo shook his head. 'What would a 'normal' teen be doing with his time?' he silently pondered, still staring at his reflection. 'Probably spending his time at a movie theater and dating like mad. Practicing behind the wheel to get his Earth Sphere driver's permit, or maybe getting his Colonial driver's license. Dreaming about his new car he's been saving for.'

'Us? Heh. Wandering the Earth Sphere, lookin' for best friends to make sure they don't get their billionaire-asses blown to smithereens by some servant of Death.'

'Kinda funny. Shinigami saving the Desert Prince from a servant of Death itself. Shinigami saving someone from himself. Shinigami saving someone, period.'

He shook his head again. 'Fuckin' hell. Overactive imagination strikes again.'

Pulling his shirt on, Duo walked over to the window and sat down in the chair beside it. Drawing the curtains slightly open, keeping the gauzy white shade that the thick dark drapes had covered still in their shut position, he stared through the obscuring fabric at the room that laid before the front bumper of that forest green Taurus.

He braided his hair as he waited for his enemy, the enemy of his friend, to make his move. And as he waited, he reflected on exactly who it was he was dealing with.

-- 23:00, 196 Days Ago --

Trowa nodded as he slowly closed the door between the living room and the dining room. "Your thoughts, Duo?"

Duo snorted, crossing his arms over his thin chest, his eyes narrowed as he glowered at the door. "I don't trust any of them."

"Neither do I. But if you had to choose amongst them?"

"I… don't know. They're each creepy in their own way. Especially that Waverly guy."

Trowa nodded.

"Xavier's the coolest of the bunch, though."

"You really think so?" Trowa asked, arching a brow.

"Trust me. I'm usually very good at pegging personality types. I think he's definitely hiding something from us, but at the same time, he's the one among them that I trust the most. Which, obviously, isn't saying much at all."

"Right. What do you think he's hiding?"

"Ah hell… I don't know. But something's just… unnerving. How easily he's giving us all this information. He just shows up, introduces himself, gives us that disk you were trying to steal, tells us where Quatre is and what he's doing… it all seems way too convenient, doesn't it? Like he's covering something that he doesn't want us to know by throwing what we want to hear out to us like he was throwin' money to bums."

-- 21:40, 191 Days Ago --

Trowa was calmly pointing the layout of the mansion out to Duo, tracing along the map he'd drawn with a slender index finger.

"So right 'bout here is where you suspect it is, eh?"

"Aa."

"Actually, Duo, the computer server is here."

"AUGH! Damn, man, don't sneak up on us like that!"

Trowa was also trying to quell his pounding heartbeat, though without the same commotion that Duo resorted to. His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Xavier Johnson, who was smirking, leaning over the map, pointing over Duo's shoulder.

"So, what are you two planning?" the OZ officer questioned, his smile cheerful and friendly.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," Trowa said quietly, shrugging as if without care.

"Yep. Just two friends conspiring together. Nothin' you need to stick your nose into."

"I'm not feeling trust here for some reason," Xavier said with a sigh.

"Gee, you fuckin' think?"

Trowa had to fight his face to keep from smirking. 'The Deathscythe pilot sure is entertaining.'

-- 17:35, 191 Days Ago --

As soon as they were safely in the dining room, Duo nearly collapsed into the nearest chair by the table that he could reach. "Fuck…"

"What's wrong?" questioned Trowa, his eyes carrying the slightest hint of concern in their emerald depths.

"I… just… shit. I don't trust any of them. It's like sitting in a room filled with fucking vultures ready to pick the flesh off your bones…"

Trowa nodded, frowning himself. He'd gotten that same feeling.

"Plus not to mention that one of those mother fuckers is the guy that was gonna blast me to smithereens."

Trowa's eyes widened. 'That's right. No WONDER he's nervous. Especially with Waverly speaking so casually about the explosion that was meant for Duo.'

"I just wanna blow the bitches to hell." Snorting, Duo plopped back in his chair and punched his fist sharply down onto the table top, making the candlesticks that were upon it shiver and topple over.

-- 04:18, 189 Days Ago --

Trowa sighed, staring at the disaster of a room. "The only problem is that they may have figured out what you were planning."

"Maybe. But then why destroy it all? Why not wait to see what move I would make, then attempt to use my strategies against me?"

Duo scowled. "My biggest concern isn't over the plan, the room, or none of this shit…"

"Hm?" Glancing over, Quatre raised a brow. Trowa quickly mimicked the move.

"It's that whoever did this is most likely still here."

A quiet groan interrupted their thoughts.

"The floor panel," Quatre softly hissed as Trowa yanked his gun from his holster and readied it.

Nodding, the taller pilot sneaked to the dropping portion of the floor that was once stationed below the chess table, and poked it with his gun. "How do you lift it?"

"The safety latch, right where that tear in the rug is."

Reaching into the tear, he felt the circular device, and gave it a good counter clockwise wrench. He brought his gun to bear as the floor panel dropped.

All three stared in disbelief as the grisly scene unveiled itself to their eyes.

Duo was the first to whisper, "Xavier…?"

The beaten, bloodied body didn't respond.

-- 23:31, 189 Days Ago --

Duo glanced up as the other two pilots finally arrived in the room that currently provided shelter for both him and Chad. "Finally decided to join us, eh?"

Quatre shrugged solemnly as Trowa nodded. They both walked to the edge of the bed.

Chad looked at them with weak, wild eyes. His gaze settled in particular upon Quatre.

"Tell me," Quatre whispered softly.

"You're not the only one around here."

"Not the only one strong enough to utilize it?"

"No."

Quatre bowed his head. "He was using you for cover, wasn't he?"

Chad slowly nodded.

"And by now, he's made his escape."

Duo and Trowa looked at one another before bursting from the room as one.

"No fuckin' way!" Duo wailed as they broke the door to Xavier's room open.

Trowa grimaced, looking at the empty bed.

-- 05:58 --

Duo frowned as his completed braid's end toppled loosely from his fingers. He hated remembering what had occurred six months ago. He hated every detail of that time, from the recollection of the look on Heero's face and the emptiness of his dilated eyes after his skull had split and blood was encasing his frame like a caterpillar's cocoon, from the loneliness that filled him every night when he dreamed of that moment when the one his heart had already found itself slithering silently towards had pressed the red plunger that had assuredly sealed his fate, to the stress and worry that pilfered all joy that might have been his, forcing him to wear the smiling mask and tell the only lie he held in his heart to the world through his lips, when he'd been incorporated without his knowledge in the diabolical scheming between Quatre Raberba Winner and the mysterious entity known only as Douglas Kesslinger. He hated having to remember the three spies who'd made his life a living Hell for those few days he'd been forced to associate with them. He hated seeing the smug, smirking visage of the longhaired, hazel-eyed man called James Waverly on the forefront of his mind. He hated envisioning the plain, round beard-sporting image of Chad Lesley before him, sap in hand and ready to knock him for a loop and abduct him once more in his dreams. He hated remembering the jester's grin that was so very like his own, hiding dark purposes and evil intentions from the world, merrily worn upon the brown-eyed face of Xavier Johnson. He hated the recollections of how helpless he'd been during that fiasco, not having Heero around to turn to or speak to, not having the clarity of a 'destroy everything with your Gundam' mission to fall back on, not having a clue about what was going on. He hated the memories of swimming in that vast sea of plotting that he couldn't bring himself to escape from, flailing wildly after goals that were moved or destroyed the moment he stretched his fingertips out to touch them.

And now he was stalking someone from that period of his life. Someone he'd have given anything to forget.

Someone who'd very likely been the one to have targeted him in that fiasco, attempting to murder him in the comfort of Quatre's home.

The fast-talker of the group. The one who deceived with a smile on his face and lies in his eyes. The one that Duo had at first judged to be the most trustworthy of the bunch but upon recollection had determined was indeed the most shady of all three of the men he'd been forced to deal with. The master of double-talk and the wearer of the fake smile that covered his true intentions, who's eyes were calculating and vicious even as his voice laughed in merriment. The one Duo suspected was the most cold-hearted of all three of the individuals he'd encountered during that time of chaos, those individuals who now rose from their graves of sand washed over them by the passage of time to disturb the present.

At least Chad Lesley had been readable. He was the everyday man, blending into his surroundings perfectly, quiet and easy to overlook. He'd developed no real technique to lying, to covering his intentions, other than avoiding them and attempting to submit altered opinions, orchestrated lines spoken from tense lips. A capable man, perhaps, but no master manipulator. Rather a master information gatherer, and nothing more. A man who was unfortunately fit for no fate other than murder, unable to see the malice in his comrades' actions or the motives for their plots that would assuredly lead to his death.

At least James Waverly, as warped as he'd seemed to the braided boy, had a sense of honor and values that he strictly adhered to. No matter how diabolical he seemed, he only did what he thought and felt was necessary to accomplish those goals he desired, never turning away from the direction his moral compass was pointing at the moment. Duo had seen that in the final days he'd dealt with the man; he'd seen the honor in his eyes even as his lips turned in a smile that radiated bitter defeat when they'd encountered him in the dungeon cells below Gregory Channok's manor. The man had motives and methods to getting things done that, while involving manipulation and murder, weren't without goal or purpose.

Xavier….

Dou shivered.

That man put him on edge.

He started as he heard a car engine start. Glancing out the window, he frowned as he noted plumes of white smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe of the forest green Ford Taurus, snaking along the ground behind the vehicle like the tendrils of spirits rolling along the cold asphalt. As the ghostly wisps turned their adventurous lengths towards the chilly air and danced along an earthly breeze, the car door opened and the tall, lank man who'd started the vehicle stepped free of its interior. Blue fuzzy slippers hurriedly carried their wearer back to the hotel room he was staying in.

He was letting the car warm up.

Duo nodded and quickly packed his duffel bag.

The man was going somewhere, and he intended to go with him.

-- 23:45 --

Duo groaned as he tried to roll off his injured side. His legs, his arms, his body refused to reply to the wishes of his mind to attain a new position, though.

Bruised and battered, the braided boy buried his eyes in the protective shade of his eyelids. Not that it would have made any difference – the area around him was as black as the blackest pitch of a starless night during a total lunar eclipse with no city lights to grace the landscape. Black as a black crayon. Black as Death's Abyss.

He wished he was dead.

Death would certainly hurt a hell of a lot less than this. It would also be less humiliating. It would be less irritating.

It would be less hopeless, less flooded with doubt and fear, less coated in the jacket of nervousness that he now wore.

Duo froze as he heard footsteps. Carefully analyzing the sound, he determined that the footfalls of his captor were receding. The man who'd tortured him for answers was retreating, returning to his meeting that he'd swiftly abandoned upon orders to seek information from the braided boy that he frankly didn't possess.

Pressing his face against the ground, his ears caught the audible pop that ripped from his chest as his body shifted with his skull's movement. A cry escaped his lips, tears unwillingly springing from his eyes.

Boys did not cry.

Fire roared along his spine. The slashes that covered his legs stung mightily. The lashes granted to his thin frame by the fall of a leathery whip, the welts they had brought into being seeped gooey puss that leaked into his shirt, binding it to his flesh and tearing away with every small shiver of his body.

He tried to set himself back into that nearly comfortable position he'd had before his snapped ribs had shifted.

Another pop, another spring of tears.

Boys did not cry.

Biting his lips, Duo turned his mind away from the pain that flooded his reality.

Unfortunately, his mind reflected on the hopelessness of his situation.

No one knew where he was. No one would be orchestrating a rescue. No one would be able to locate him. And he was in the enemy's clutches, unable to do anything about the plot they were crafting, unable to do anything to stop them from murdering the boy who was dearest to him as a friend.

Boys did not cry.

Tears seeped from his eyes as the heavy weight of despair settled on him more heavily than the pain of his injuries ever could.

Duo cried, very softly, in the incapacitating darkness.

-- 22:08 --

Duo shivered violently, rubbing his arms viciously in an attempt to stay warm. He was silently envying the dogs in their crates for their plush fur coats and the cats in their boxes for the same. Quietly reflecting, he snapped a curse at the God who'd allowed humans to evolve as they had, abandoning the fur that would most certainly benefit his health and comfort at this moment for the thin scraggly hair that stood on end, the bumps that ran their courses along his arms raising them into useless little towers upon his pale, shivering flesh. Those goose pimples would have caused any other mammal's hair to stand on end, fluffing it out and trapping warm air next to the animal's flesh to help insulate it from the cold. Well, most mammals. He didn't suspect that walruses or whales got goose pimples.

But no, he was a human. And thanks to the development of the species, he was completely devoid of the luxury of body fur. Hell, he hadn't even grown a decent swath of chest or back hair. He'd never had his upper-lip touched by the hint of a moustache. The stubble of an oncoming beard avoided his face as if it were a carrier of the plague. Perhaps puberty had just decided to skip merrily past him, taking with it all the increased testosterone flow that would make that little thing he desired at the moment called body and facial hair with it. Damn it all.

He snarled at a dog that was looking at him curiously. "Shaddup."

The dog panted merrily.

Duo just hung his head with a whimper. He'd thought during the first couple hours of this flight that he was indeed lucky that this particular shuttle that was connecting at the Lunar Space and Air Station, located just a crater over from the Lunar Base that was home to the Preventers, was a cargo carrier that was at the moment hauling live animals. Such, of course, meant that the cargo bay he was stowing away in would be kept pressurized, oxygenated, and temperate. Meaning that he would be able to snag the same flight as Xavier without having to go through the hassle of getting a ticket and risking being seen by the man who undoubtedly would remember him. After all, he'd probably not met many other violet-eyed, chestnut-haired boys with braids that reached passed their asses in the last few years.

However, he'd forgotten one thing. Animals could withstand cold a whole hell of a lot better than he could.

A sneeze erupted from his nostrils. Wiping his nose ruefully on his bare arm, he snorted. 'There better not be much left of this God damned flight. Wonder why the fuck that moron decided to head to the LSAS anyway? Couldn't be trying to escape. From what Tro relayed, he should be trying desperately to find Quatre right now, 'cause they've slipped out of their clutches. Or questionin' Waverly.'

Duo bit down a gag and a curse at the very thought of that man, and continued with his mental rambling.

'So why the Moon? What kind of damned business does he have on the Moon, and most importantly…'

"Does it have anything to do with Quatre…?"

The dog barked.

Duo snorted and buried his head in the cradle of his arms, trying to warm his hands by covering them with his bangs. "God, I wish I had a few answers… give 'em to me, and maybe I'll start believin' in you. Maybe. Deal?"

He felt ridiculous, sitting in a cargo bay and praying that a deity who didn't exist would pile the answers to his current dilemma upon him.

But he was desperate.

Desperation is known to make men do things they'd never consider doing regularly.

-- 23:01 --

Duo scowled at the man who roughly had his arm. As he was escorted down unnaturally bright white hallways, he refused to turn his eyes to his captor.

He'd never expected that it would be Xavier Johnson who'd snatch him as he attempted to fly from the cargo bay once it had been pried open. How the man had managed to make it out of the passenger compartment and down to the flight deck of the space station was beyond him. He'd not been there to witness the feat.

All he knew was that he loathed the man who had his arm and was hauling him to some unknown destination.

Soon they entered a stark chamber, devoid of any furniture save a table and a pair of chairs. A box held a stack of paperwork and was shoved against the right side of one of those chairs. A bare light bulb, suspended from the ceiling by its power cord, lit the off-white closet-sized room.

Then Duo noticed that he and Xavier weren't alone.

"What is this?" the other man asked, arching a brow over a pale blue eye.

Xavier smirked merrily. "Apparently your little target is further ahead of the game than either you or I expected, my friend. He's enlisted more help."

One brow ticking in annoyance, the man took a seat. Broad shoulders stiff under the dark black trench coat he wore, he scowled as he ran his fingers through the spiky blonde bangs that hung to the side of his face.

Duo started. 'The man Trowa was tracking. The one who got into that Honda with the lollipop in its back seat.'

"First he gets Waverly on his side. Then he enlists the help of who you claim was one of his friends during the Eve Wars. And now this one?" Frowning, the blonde looked Duo over. "He looks familiar."

Xavier chuckled. "Duo Maxwell. You probably saw his photo on the news during the conflicts last year. He had quite a penchant for getting himself captured."

"Fuck you," Duo snarled.

The unidentified man laughed quietly. "I see. And he is involved with the Winner heir. Xavier, he simply must know something that might be of use, do you not think?"

"Got'cha, my friend," Xavier merrily chirped.

Duo was hauled away from the room, swiftly escorted down those white hallways to yet another room. As he was roughly thrown into the room, Xavier turned and locked the door behind himself.

"What, going to torture me now?" Duo said with a biting sneer.

"Sharp kid!" Xavier said with a smile. "I think, perhaps, I'm going to convince you to tell me exactly where dear little Quatre's hiding so that I might finish what we've all started."

'What you've all started?' Duo's brain pondered, even as his lips turned in an even more manic smirk and he snickered. "Best of luck. Can't get no answers from a man who ain't got none. Quat didn't tell me where he was callin' from. Just said he needed help, and told me where to meet Tro."

"Ah, yes. Barton."

Duo froze.

"He'll know exactly where Quatre is."

"So you don't need to spend any time with me," Duo suggested sharply.

"But we'll see what you do know, just in case."

Paling, Duo tried to back away as the man approached, whip procured from a box sitting by the door that the ex-pilot had failed to notice before. Dropping into a boxing stance, Duo prepared to fight before falling.

Xavier smiled gently, mockingly. "Don't struggle. It will just make this hurt worse."

Duo tried to dodge as the whip snapped through the air. His hands went to his throat, trying to dislodge the weapon's deadly coils from his neck even as he was yanked freely off his feet. Hitting the ground, he curled his fingers more tightly around the leather strand, intent on not allowing it to strangle him.

He winced as he heard cuffs snap around his ankles. His hands were pulled behind his back and similarly secured.

The whip freed itself from his neck. Arching above him in a graceful slithering arc, it whistled through the air.

Duo tried his damnedest not to scream.

-- 23:43 --

Duo flopped onto the hard ground in the unlit cell. He intended to stagger, to stand, but without decent control over his motor functions that proved to be an impossibility. Xavier had all but hauled him bodily from the room his blood had stained red, then thrown him like a sack of moldy potatoes into the black hellhole he was to be confined to.

Duo's eyes caught a glimmer of light as the open door was slowly swung shut. His voice rasped dryly through his sandpapery throat, hissing his hate and discontent at the man who had imprisoned him. "Fucker," he spat as mightily as he could.

"Such harsh language, little friend," Xavier mocked.

Duo ignored him. Instead, he reflected on what was happening.

It was beginning again. Everything was beginning again. The frustrations, the futility, the battles, the sliding goals stolen away by laughing outsiders who cared not for life or soul.

But to every beginning, there had to be an end. There had to be! Without that thought, Duo's life became empty and morbidly hopeless, A continuing parade of travesties that would never see its termination.

There had to be an end. That was the only hope that he held in his heart. There had to be an end to the days when he channeled the God of Death, an end to his necessitating blood on his hands. There had to be an end to the days that he needed to fear for his life and for the lives of his friends. There had to be an end to the plots that roared around him now like crackling lightning bolts that never flashed out of existence even after striking, that continually kissed with their deadly electric lips those they sought to destroy.

The hope of an end to the macabre stream that was his existence was the only thing that comforted the braided boy at times. The only thing that let him sleep. The only thing that warded off the creatures of the night that plagued his soul with every beat of his heart.

But right now, he couldn't see any end. All he could see was a continuation of what he'd seen six months ago, and the resulting murder of his best friend. A murder he would be powerless to stop, because he was trapped without recourse on the Lunar surface, held in place by the will of a poisonous viper.

Not even his braid had been left unmolested. Everything he could have used to escape that he normally hid in its immaculate folds had been stolen away by dexterous fingers belonging to a viciously smiling man.

Duo tried to turn his mind from his hopeless situation.

Pain erupted from his thin frame. An unwilling huff came from his nose as he squinted his eyes, trying to keep tears from coursing down his round cheeks.

He decided he really needed to get off the side that Xavier had kicked repeatedly when he'd fallen after being waylaid by that whip.

He needed to get off of his broken ribs.

_tbc..._


	16. Chapter XV

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Too late to turn back now, I'm running out of sound  
and I am changing, changing  
and if we died right now, this fool you love somehow  
is here with you_

_Galapogos_

-- 07:41 --

Trowa padded quietly from the bathroom, a soft white towel wrapped around his waist and his soaking wet hair caught in the folds of a second towel which was being vigorously rubbed over his scalp to attempt to absorb some of the massive quantities of water his thick brown mop captured in its locks. Crossing the threshold from hard tile to only slightly softer carpeting, the boy made his way to the bed that did not have beer bottles circling it as a barrier against invading persons and to the boxer-clad youth that was lying atop that bed on his belly, cell phone pressed to his ear. Seating himself upon the edge of that bed, listening to it creak in protest with his added weight and feeling it bow and the blankets below his frame rumple, he set thickly calloused fingertips upon the other boy's bare back. Not a single word escaped his lips; he stared at the boy with hooded emerald eyes, taking in his position. Narrowed blue eyes that shined dark as expensive sapphires glared at the wall, lips pressed into a thin disdainful line, shoulders tense and fingers drumming on the pillow they rested on, Quatre's body language spoke of stressed anticipation.

Trowa, carefully avoiding the dental floss stitches he'd put into the pale skin so short a time ago, lightly rubbed the bunched muscles under that deceivingly soft porcelain skin in a vain attempt to bring some small measure of relaxation to the wiry bundle of fiercely nervous energy that laid in the center of that bed.

After many moments had passed, a thin and tinny voice speaking over the cellular phone's small speaker filling the silence that had tried to dominate the room during that time finally falling silent and awaiting a reply, Quatre sighed softly. "I see. Thank you for the report. Keep working on the second one, alright? I'll see about the first personally."

The voice spoke instantly. Trowa's sharp ears were unable to catch the exact words that spilled from the phone, but he judged by the tone it carried and by the quickness after Quatre's proclamation that it had begun to speak that whoever it was on the other end of the line was desperately protesting the blonde's decision.

Quatre didn't listen to the voice. His fingers deftly found the 'end' button on the phone, terminating the call with vicious swiftness. Bowing his head as he tossed the phone carelessly onto the shared nightstand between the beds, uncaring as it clattered against beer bottles and disturbed an empty Macaroni and Cheese box, he let his shoulders sag. "Can you do that a bit to the right, Trowa?" he quietly asked, his voice weary.

"Sure thing," Trowa replied, setting both of his strong, long-fingered hands to the task he sought to complete. Rubbing the smaller boy's back gently yet firmly, Trowa allowed his emerald eyes to drift shut.

He forced them to remain closed, lest the boy he massaged turn his gaze and catch the glimmers of lust Trowa was certain would be glowing for all of the world to see in his irises.

Trying to ward his mind away from the delectable fantasies that it was creating from the simple joy of touching the boy he'd been finding himself slowly tossing his heart to, he cleared his throat and forced his attentions onto his curiosity and his frustrations over their current situation instead. "So who was that?" he began, attempting desperately to regain the business-mode his brain had been saddled with during the time he'd been removed from the blonde's side and spying on Xavier Johnson and his unnamed contact who'd escaped him by fleeing to the moon.

Quatre's shoulders tensed. Trowa frowned, redoubling his efforts, digging his thumbs more firmly into the smooth flesh of his fellow ex-pilot's back.

After nearly a minute had passed and the red digital numbers on the radio alarm clock had finally clicked to a new time, Quatre sighed quietly. "One of my contacts."

"Waverly?"

"No," Quatre replied. "Rather someone who's looking for James. She was calling me with bad news."

"Am I allowed to know what transpired?" Trowa asked quietly.

A small shrug of his shoulders slightly jostled Trowa's hands before Quatre continued. "If you wish. She failed finding him. Just found out that he'd been last seen on the PCH at a Shell gas station about ten miles out of Santa Barbara, accompanying some woman in her GMC. Old truck, too. Half rusted according to my contact. And last time she saw him was about a week ago."

Trowa allowed a small frown to come over his lips as he reflected on the conversation he'd overheard that had progressed at Xavier Johnson's rented, bugged car.

-- 03:10, 5 Days Ago --

Trowa turned up the volume on the receiver as the static finally broke.

He narrowed his eyes as he listened to the conversation that poured over the microphone in the absence of the loud engine noise that Trowa realized had been dominating earlier.

"He failed?"

Trowa narrowed his eyes. 'Xavier.'

"- s, he d i-. They ma - ip away in do - n," a voice Trowa failed to recognize said, breathing just outside of the small receiver's limited range for clarity.

"Hmm. Well, this is pro - ng to be an interesting de - ment, isn't it?" Xavier's voice answered, before continuing with, "And wha - f the other one?"

"Se - red, for th - me bei -."

"Perfect."

The loud roar of the engine being started was nearly deafening. Trowa quickly fished the microphone out of his ear and tossed it onto the table, rubbing his ear after it exited the channel and wincing. Reaching over, he calmly turned the receiver off.

'Secured...?'

-- 11:12, 5 Days Ago --

'Secured...'

Scratching his chin with his free hand, his right still laying on the covered blonde's arm and tenderly holding him still, Trowa closed his eyes.

'They were speaking about Mr. Waverly, I'll bet. And by 'secured' they have him. He's been captured. Or he returned to them to report to them...'

'But if he's working in conjunction with them, he would probably have been the sniper at the Aquarium. Quatre would be dead. Of that, I'm certain; that man is more competent than whoever it was that struck at us.'

'Getting information from him is obviously out of the question. I have to do this on my own.'

'I HAVE to find out what's going on.'

-- 07:56 --

Trowa allowed his lips to fall and form the frown that was on the forefront of his mind. "That ties in with what I heard Xavier say."

Quatre turned his head slightly, one darkened eye peering over his shoulder to stare at his companion. "What was that?"

"He was speaking with someone about us escaping, and having Mr. Waverly secured."

Quatre managed to stiffen completely. "You're kidding... when did you hear this?"

"About five days ago," Trowa said with a small nod. "Pretty much right after we escaped the assassination attempt at the Aquarium."

"No..."

"You're worried?" Trowa asked.

A nod and a sigh escaped the blonde as he slumped, flopping completely down on the bed and tossing his arms lazily to his sides. "Yeah. If he's been captured, it complicates matters. He managed to derail what I was doing earlier by coming across more information than he was supposed to. Indeed, he wasn't supposed to be involved at all. I didn't plan on him leaving Alaska."

Trowa arched a brow. "You keep careful tabs on him, don't you?"

A quirky smile flitted across Quatre's lips. "The man's one of my greatest allies... and one of my most potentially dangerous enemies. I never keep him out of my line of sight. It's unwise to turn your back away from someone who has enough information about you to undermine you completely and enough competence to eliminate you without you even knowing he was after you."

Emerald eyes blinked.

"Simply put, while I'm fairly certain I know what he'll be doing and what his motives are due to the fact that I know his mindset well enough and understand his honor code, I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. The man's a double agent, Trowa. Just the kind of person you NEVER trust, no matter how duty-driven or friendly towards you they are. If he and I ended up on opposing sides of any operation that would lead to his goals with my death, he wouldn't hesitate in pulling the trigger."

"Yet you're worried about him?" Trowa asked.

A sigh and a nod from Quatre answered his question before he replied. "Yes. Even though I don't trust the man, he and I are on the same side this time. While I'm not entirely working towards the completion of the plan, I do help preserve the peace he's enjoying during this stage of his life with the person he's found to fill the void that's been eaten into his soul with the passage of time. And while he's on my side, he's my most valuable ally. I'm sorry, Trowa."

Trowa smiled faintly and shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I believe I understand. It's because he's always just one step behind you, isn't it?"

"As annoying as it is that he's that hot on my heels in all things, yes. I don't have to lead him. He acts on his own without needing to be lead or informed of anything. He either cooperates beautifully with my plans as I unveil them, or creates his own plots to coincide with my own."

"I thought you said he derailed your plans by doing that?"

"He did. But I've adjusted. And now that he's been captured and is out of my field of vision, everything's been thrown askew again." Quatre shook his head slowly.

Trowa scratched his chin, silently pondering. 'That was the problem last time, wasn't it Quatre? Every time you attempted to make a move, your plans were derailed. Every time you came close to catching your target, those who were supposedly working for you hindered your progression. Was that their focus last time? To stop you?'

'To keep you from catching the one you were after?'

Quatre's voice interrupted Trowa's thoughts. "I suspect that during our last encounter, two of those three were betraying me. Apparently the Romefeller Foundation was offering a much better price than I was for their services."

Trowa blinked. "Hm?"

Shaking his head, the blonde sighed. "Their constant derailment of what I'm doing. This time it wasn't intentional, as it was during our last run together. This time it was the result of someone coming across too much information and making his own plans, attempting to correlate with my own but screwing up completely in the process. James is usually a lot more competent. But, of course, everyone is human and everyone is capable of mistakes from time to time."

"So you're saying that-"

"That this is different than last time, Trowa. That this time there are no double agents betraying me, altering my plans as we go. That the one who still lives, the traitor who escaped the assassin's touch, has already made his intentions well known. There is no deception this time. And..."

"And?" Trowa pressed.

"And I'm suspecting that he's the one responsible for his involvement this time. That it was his intention to disrupt my plans."

"So he could strike against you while you were adjusting the board?"

Quatre nodded. "Precisely."

-- 09:30 --

Trowa had been mulling over everything Quatre had told him silently, attempting to put together everything he knew and everything he had recently discovered.

'God, this gets worse every time something new is revealed, doesn't it?' he ruefully thought.

Quatre glanced over at him from his seat at the table and smiled wanly. "Penny for your thoughts."

Trowa shook his head. "Trying to figure things out."

His faint smile fading from his lips, Quatre sighed softly. "Best of luck to you. If you figure something out, would you mind sharing?"

Trowa stared, his emerald eyes veritably glowing with shock. 'He... doesn't know what's going on...!'

-- 20:10, 7 Days Ago --

'His play was so incredibly sloppy. Why? What was his focus?'

'Or was that his point? That he has no focus, and he's simply blindly running about in a vain attempt to stop whoever it is that's striking out against him with no plan or focus because he also has no clue what's really going on?'

-- 09:33 --

'That was the point... that was the point!'

'You're lost. You're running scared. And you're too focused on your own survival to utilize your friends to assist you. That was the point of that game! My God, it took me a week to figure that out!'

Trowa resisted the urge to slap his forehead.

"What?" Quatre softly asked, turning down the volume on the TV, diverting his attention from the continuing news report to focus instead on his friend.

"I just figured something out," Trowa said with a snort. "I finally figured out what you were showing me on that board."

Quatre simply nodded.

"Just one thing, Quatre... I know that you don't know what's going on, who's behind it or why. But, have you played with the idea that it could be that same guy? It's too much of a coincidence to bypass - the surviving men who were involved with the battle between that guy and you are involved again. It's another plot that's seeking to stop you, though this time it's trying to kill you instead of simply derail your efforts. This time they're the aggressor instead of you. Do you think-"

"That it could be revenge? Or some plot to undermine me? Find out what I'm doing and put a stop to anything I might have underway before I can accomplish it?" Quatre finished for him.

Trowa silently nodded his head.

"No," Quatre said simply, decisively.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because of what I was shown."

-- 13:18, 17 Days Ago --

As he walked out of the ground-floor lobby almost thirty minutes after leaving the office that occupied the top floor of the huge skyscraper, the man smiled slightly, listening to the conversation that rolled from the small ear-piece he had discretely sitting in his ear-cannel.

"Yes, Mr. Winner. An attempted security breech while you were at lunch. We can replay the tapes for you if you like, but the one that would have given us the best view of his activities was covered by a soda can at the time he was trying to break into your office," one voice, husky and deep, rumbled.

"Really. I see. Thank you, Mr. Shulman. You can give me those tapes in an hour, yes?" a second voice quickly said, its tenor light and almost uncaring as it sighed.

"As you wish, Mr. Winner," the first voice replied. With the sound of footprints walking away, the second voice sighed softly.

"I suspected as much. Interesting setup, too..."

'He found the board,' the man reflected, listening carefully to the sounds coming through his receiver.

"So that's what you're planning," the light voice muttered softly across the earpiece.

"What was that, Mr. Winner?" another voice piped in.

"Nothing, nothing. Just looking at something... seems a bit out of place, is all."

"I see. The chessboard?"

"Isn't at all like it was left."

-- 09:40 --

"So it was changed?" Trowa asked.

Quatre nodded. "There was no onyx king. And the only piece that could save me was a rook."

Trowa shook his head. "I don't comprehend what that means."

A small smile took the blonde's lips. "That's because you've never played against Mr. Waverly before, my dear friend. He was showing me what was going on in the camp of my enemies through the board."

"How?"

"No onyx king. That means that Douglas Kesslinger isn't involved. This isn't something involving the Plan. And that's exactly why the white rook was the piece that was able to save me from the fires - because this has nothing to do with what James wants to come to pass, because this has nothing to do with Kesslinger's world of the future. This is a plan that runs askew of his dreams, and so he's helping me. No, Trowa, this isn't a repeat of what happened six months ago. Though most of the same players are on the board and are on the same sides they were on before, there's a different mastermind manning the opposing pieces in this game."

-- 12:05 --

Trowa lounged on the bed. Quatre was busily watching the noon stock report, which frankly was boring the acrobat to tears. He wasn't invested in anything, thus it didn't hold any particular interest for him.

Instead of paying attention to the ways of the world and the money that ran it, he was mulling over his dilemma.

'Someone's out to kill Quatre. Why is unknown.'

'That someone is utilizing Xavier Johnson, who was also the traitor who ran everything into the ground for Quatre six months ago. He's after him again.'

'Somehow James Waverly got pulled into this, and unintentionally screwed over Quatre's plans though he was actually trying to work for Quatre's best interests. He's trying desperately to protect Quatre from those who are after him, and has ended up getting captured for his efforts.'

'Which could possibly be why he pulled me into his schemes. Because as even he told me, he was being targeted as well, because he 'knows too much.' Meaning that he has an idea of what's really going on. And he probably knew that because he had an inkling of what's going on and was working for Quatre's benefit that he'd be taken out of the picture, leaving Quatre vulnerable and alone. Like Quatre was demonstrating on the chessboard, he was abandoned and working alone, not having any support pieces to utilize, not attempting to utilize them for fear of losing them to his enemy while he had no clue as to what his enemies true strategy actually is.'

'Xavier is pretty desperate about diverting all of Quatre's assistance away from him. That's why he was attempting to get me to distrust James when I met with him out in the desert over a week ago. Because if I didn't trust him, I wouldn't go along with his plans, and would completely divert any and all assistance that would be rendered to Quatre. And if I didn't cooperate with Quatre's ally, I wouldn't be placed to protect him. So he lied through his teeth to drive me away.'

'Someone, very likely those who are after Quatre, showed interest in Sandrock Gundam. Somehow they were able to locate that suit, but the Maguanacs intercepted them and moved it so whoever was after it couldn't obtain it.'

'So not only is this about Quatre but also it's about his suit. About his Gundam. Why his in particular?'

'Or is his the only Gundam that's simply been found? Maybe his isn't the only one that's targeted...'

'Anyway, Quatre suspects that whoever's after him wants him dead because of his governmental position and the power he has in the reconstruction of the world. Xavier suggested that as well in that sea of lies he was telling me... what if part of what he was saying was true?'

'What if the White Fang is partially behind this?'

-- 20:21, 11 Days Ago --

"I'm not here for small-talk. I don't care how you are or what you've been doing for these last six months."

"Alright, point taken." His smirk still upon his lips, Xavier Johnson slipped into a chair and shook his head. Leaning against the table, his elbow resting firmly against its top, he pressed his cheek into the cupped palm of his hand. "You do already know that there's someone after the life of Quatre Raberba Winner, don't you?"

"I've been allowed to be aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here," Trowa said with a snort.

"Alright. There's some suspicion that it's a radical terrorist group who opposes to the peace promotion that he's heading. They want him out of the picture to throw the Earth Sphere into chaos and utilize that situation to begin another war, one which would possibly secure them a foothold at the head of rule on its termination."

"Something like what Romefeller originally intended?"

Xavier chuckled. "More like what Dekim of the Barton Foundation had dreamed about."

Trowa let his eyes widen.

"Yes, I know all about Operation Meteor. Don't be so shocked, kiddo! Despite what that jackass outside has told you, I'm not as incompetent as I look."

"I never believed you were incompetent for a moment," Trowa truthfully admitted, narrowing his eyes. "I believe you, like Duo, play the part of the chipper fool to turn people away from the suspicion that you actually know much more than you let on. You hide your knowledge, your awareness of the situations that surround you, and your intellect behind a mask."

Arching a brow, Xavier finally let his lips fall from their smile. "I see."

"Please, continue. What group is this, and why are they only targeting Quatre? Certainly Relena Dorlain would be as much of a probable target for such a purpose."

"Well, here's what I know. From what my employer has told me, it's not simply because he's a representative in this fight for peace. It's also because he's from the colonies. The same stigmatism isn't held towards Ms. Dorlain as she's a simple earthling, and can't be held to the expectation to understand the pain and the loneliness experienced by the colonies as Mr. Winner should be able to. He's become Earth's lap dog, and the people are angry."

"And how does your employer know this?" Trowa asked softly.

"Because he's been petitioned by this organization to join them in their quest to overthrow the current reign of the Earth Sphere and assist in their rise to power."

"And how could your employer do this?" he pressed on.

Xavier shrugged as he calmly confirmed, "Because my employer was once CEO of a weapons manufacturing enterprise. Though he's since turned his plants to colony-based manufacturing in an attempt to assist in the repair of the damages done during the battles of the last few turbulent months that preceded the Eve War, his reputation as a weapons manufacturer remains rather widely spread and well known."

Trowa arched a brow and frowned. "And why would this person be concerned for the continued welfare of Mr. Winner? Certainly he could make more profit from turning to weapons manufacturing once more."

"My employer is not a person who wishes for war, Mr. Barton. He, like most other people in this new era, is enjoying the taste of peace and the joy of doing something to benefit people rather than doing something that brings harm to the innocent populous. And he has had the wisdom to see that Mr. Winner's assassination would indeed bring about the turmoil this terrorist organization is striving for, and being a fan of the boy who's very company has assisted his own in their combined efforts to bring peace and quality life to the members of the colony population, he wishes for his continued existence."

"Mr. Winner's subsidizing him?"

"Yep."

Trowa rubbed his forehead. 'Very roundabout story, but it all makes sense. Damn. What if he really is telling the truth...?'

"And what's the name of this organization?" Trowa ventured.

"You know them well enough. They're the remnants of the White Fang."

-- 12:39 --

'White Fang... and Xavier Johnson's employer, who is very likely the head of this little operation to see Quatre dead. A well known weapons manufacturer, and its CEO. I'll have to research that.'

'Weapons manufacturer, and interest shown in Sandrock Gundam...'

'Does this entirely have to do with the Gundams? If it does, then why haven't the rest of us been under attack like Quatre has?'

'And who the hell would know that he was actually Sandrock's pilot? The name of Gundam 04's pilot's been lost to the War, according to recent history. Therefore I doubt there's a tie there to what's going on.'

'But it all comes down to this weapons manufacturer. Xavier Johnson's employer. Maybe it's that blonde guy I was attempting to trail that managed to slip out of my grasp by fleeing to the Moon.'

'And Xavier Johnson is missing. There's been nothing over the bug that's planted in his car. The tape recorder got him cursing about nearly missing the LAX exit due to assholes, though..."

'Maybe he was going up to meet the guy who escaped me? And maybe, if he did, Duo's on him...'

'God, I pray Duo's on him. I'd go myself, but...'

'But that's not what Mr. Waverly intended me to do. He had purpose in putting me where I am. He had reason to put me at Quatre's side.'

'He pulled me to protect Quatre, not to solve his dilemma or figure out exactly what's going on. He has me here to protect him, to free himself to discover what the motives behind Quatre's unknown attackers actually are. He wants me to preserve Quatre's life. Which I'm going to do, damn it. And not because that's what Mr. Waverly wants me to do.'

'Because he told me six months ago. And he told me in his letter. He loves me.'

'No matter what happens, Quatre, I'm here with you. In life, in death, it doesn't matter. I'll be here.'

_tbc..._


	17. Chapter XVI

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts  
and poured cement, lamented and assured  
to the lights and towns below  
faster than the speed of sound  
faster than we thought we'd go, beneath the sound of hope_

_1979_

-- 17:57 --

Duo pressed his head against the cool, unforgiving floor of his cell. A grunted sigh slipped between his lips as he gritted his teeth. Flexing his fingers he wiggled them in a desperate attempt to keep circulation flowing to their tips.

A small inhalation of breath raced up his nostrils, drawing dust into his nasal passage once again. Quickly huffing to clear his nose before he was forced to suffer from yet another sneezing fit, the braided boy's brain belittled him continuously over his situation.

'Trapped. So completely trapped.'

A thick rumble stirred the air.

Duo whimpered as he smacked his forehead with little force against the floor. "Gaw. And starving, too. Damned lousy prison here. How do they expect t'pull anything from me if I fuckin' die from starvation? Morons don't realize you have to feed prisoners."

Cracking open one eye to stare at the raven-pitched blackness that engulfed him, Duo let a slow breath leak from his lungs. 'I don't even know how long I've been in here. Haven't eaten since I got here, though; I know they haven't served dinner once since that shuttle touched down, damn it. And judging by how empty my stomach feels, pro'lly has been 'round two or three days.'

'This is the worst I've ever had it. Damn. Last time Heero managed to find me and rescue me after only a day.'

'Ha! Duo, stop fucking with yourself. Heero ain't gonna find you. It's been more than a couple of days already; if he was looking for you, he'd have found you by now. And why the hell would he be keeping tabs on you anyway? It's you who's the stalker of his compatriots. Dumb ass.'

'Besides, no one knows where I am. Only one that could possibly have any inkling would be Trowa. And that's only because he knew that I was going to tail Xavier, and he was gonna take the mystery blonde. Apparently wonder-bang screwed up and lost him, as I haven't been rescued yet. He didn't tail him up here, so he doesn't know that I'm up here as well. Maybe he doesn't even know that Xavier's come up here….'

'If that's the case, I'm so royally screwed….'

Duo smacked his lips. 'God, I'm so damned dehydrated… fuck the food. I wish they'd just give me some water. Haven't had enough liquid in my system to even dream of pissing for a long ass time.'

'That your plan? Kill me by not giving me water? Letting me die of thirst?'

A small wriggle of his fingers, a weak stir of his body to shift his position a bit, and the boy ignored his pain-ridden body and instead let his mind wander aimlessly over what he'd pondered and heard over the last few days.

'It's a good damned plan, actually. Almost done.' A dry, weak chuckle escaped his lips. 'Gimme another day, and you'll have the esteemed pleasure of hefting my carcass, Xavier. Pro'lly would bring your sick ass pleasure, though.'

'Maybe I'll go rigor in some obscene position to try and piss him off. That'd be funny.'

'It's about all I can do.'

-- 01:16, 1 Day Ago --

Voices suddenly entered the realm of black silence that encompassed Duo's conscious world. Violet eyes flew open, the brain those eyes fed barely keeping the mouth it drove from screaming obscenities about the extraordinarily dark environment they beheld upon the parting of the eyelids that shaded those delicate orbs. Grimacing in silence, the boy squinted his eyes shut and instead focused on his ears, trying every trick in the book to make his perception of those noises he'd heard more sharp and clear – he slowed his breathing, tried to quell the rapid pace of his heart that had resulted from his surprise, ceased all motion including the adjusting of his head for fear that the rustling of his hair over the floor he laid upon would block those sounds he sought to listen to.

He was rewarded for his efforts. The voices were loud enough for him to pull their words from the thick air.

Duo had to contain his rage to keep from snarling out loud as Xavier's voice was the first that met his ears.

"He had nothing."

"Nothing at all?" the voice Duo recognized now as belonging to the tall blonde Trowa was supposed to be tracking questioned.

"Right. Apparently when my dear little Quatre contacted him, he failed to reveal where he could be found or even give the kid a contact number to reach him back at. Very disappointing results, if you ask me. A complete waste of my time."

"Hmph. Well, this is simply peachy. In other words, he brought us nothing new."

"Exactly, boss."

Duo started, his mind instantly drawn away from the grumbling and cursing it was hurling silently at the persons who stood in comfort outside of the miserable Hell he dwelled in chatting easily. 'Xavier's boss?' he mused. 'Huh. Now this is an interesting development. Now if only I could get some really usable information… then get my happy ass outta here…."

The man identified as the 'boss' continued, "What about your other lead? Any news from your little operative on the success of her efforts?"

A grunt leaked from Xavier's throat. "I told you that he'd be a tough one to crack. He will crack, eventually, if put under the right kind of pressure. Any human would."

"But?"

"But she hasn't been able to pry anything useful out of him. He's a stubborn ass."

"You're disappointing me. You told me you'd have the Minister of Defense dead by the end of the month. You told me that your friend knew where he's hidden and that you'd be able to pry that information from him. In both cases you've yet to deliver. You told me, as a matter of fact, that your 'dear friend' could be trusted and would assist us in killing the Winner heir. Instead, he runs off and obtains the assistance of one of the boys you claim to have been involved with during the war – a Gundam pilot, no less – and you fail miserably in driving that obstacle out of the way! By your efforts, you've allowed the boy to dash into the safety of obscurity with no feasible way of flushing him out of his hiding hole and have ensured his protection by getting people who have no need to be involved allied with him!"

"Sogran, I can explain…."

"I don't want explanations any longer, Mr. Johnson. You promised me you'd have Winner terminated by the end of the month. You promised that four days ago."

An uncomfortable moment of silence passed. Duo held his breath, eagerly awaiting the conversation's renewal.

He was rewarded as the man named 'Sogran' spoke again, growling, "You have sixteen days before your time is up."

Xavier, his voice heavy and lacking its characteristic flippancy for once, sighed quietly. Duo strained his ears to catch his mumbled affirmation of that ultimatum. Moments after that whisper, he spoke a little more loudly and clearly, saying, "I've got a couple plans in motion right now. Hopefully this will be finished within three days."

"Then you've been lying to me? You know where the boy is?"

"No, but I've got an individual down there who likely does have a decent idea as to where he's hiding. And even if that individual doesn't know where he's holed up at the moment, he will definitely be able to flush him out."

Sogran's voice spoke softly with lack of conviction, "How can you claim this?"

"Simple," Xavier chuckled brightly, the mask of cheer back in place, "Quatre wouldn't ignore a panicked call from one of his own constituents – indeed, one of his own employees – beckoning him to appear."

Duo swallowed the bile that was threatening to make its way up his throat.

-- 22:28 --

Duo stared blankly at the ceiling.

He was marveling in his drug-induced stupor at the white ceiling tiles that hovered above him, their bright surfaces marred by black speckles that permeated the span of those roughly painted slabs. Held in place by bars that were painted white to match the rest of the décor, those huge tiles directed no threat to those below.

They even matched the sheets, Duo noted. And the curtains. And the floor and the walls and the tray and the toilet paper he knew must be hanging in the stall nearby that was hidden from view by the white door.

'Talk about monotony,' Duo's brain chortled. 'But hey, at least I can see now. White. So much different than black.'

"Hey, lady, can you up the drip of this stuff? I'm still hurtin' here," he playfully moaned at the nurse that walked in. He looked her over, slightly disappointed with the fact that she didn't match his room at all. Her light blue smock with the chibi penguins sprinkled liberally across its surface like wildly tossed confetti was an almost stark contrast to the purity of the room she worked in. Leaning his head, he looked further. 'Ha! Her shoes are white, though! There, Ms. Nurse. Your attempt to break from the mold has been broken by your shoes.'

The young dark-skinned nurse arched a brow, staring with rueful cheer at the boy occupying the bed. "I do believe you're getting more than enough, Mr. Maxwell," she giggled as she shook her curly-haired head, tugging his sheets straight and setting herself to the task of replacing his nearly depleted saline bag. "Feeling the urge yet?"

"Not one bit," Duo answered, his voice bright. "Told'ja I was dehydrated."

"You most certainly were. Perhaps you should lie back and get more rest, Mr. Maxwell. We'll ensure that you're properly cared for while you sleep."

He stared at the woman, watching her mascara-coated eyelashes flutter as she blinked and her dark blue eye shadow shine in the room's light. "But what if Heero comes back in?"

"Mr. Yuy won't be able to visit until tomorrow, Mr. Maxwell," she said calmly as she hung his new bottle and clamped the hose that snaked from his old one to the needle that punched into his hand, held in place by strands of tape. "Hospital visiting hours are done."

"But he might wanna ask more questions. Nice lipstick color."

She blinked a few times, then smirked, letting her pink-colored lips curl. "Mr. Maxwell, go to sleep. If he has questions for you, he'll come back tomorrow."

"But…!"

"No more buts!" she exclaimed as she fastened his hose into the new drug-laced saline bag. Loosening the clamp, she carefully adjusted the drip of the room-temperature fluid. "Get some sleep."

"Gimme more faster, and I'll go to sleep," he tried to bargain.

"I don't want you hypothermic. Go to sleep. If you sleep, you won't feel your wounds."

"If you sleep, you won't feel your wounds," he repeated, his voice squeaky and mocking.

With a little huff of exasperation, her lips still turned in a smile at the antics of her drugged patient, the nurse shook her head. "Good night."

"Mmmmm. Morphine."

The nurse flicked off the lights and closed the door.

With her gone, Duo stared at the ceiling some more. Even with the lights off, the city lights that leaked through his window's blinds cast enough illumination into his room to permit him to see.

That brought him enough pleasure to allow him to forget his aching side with his three broken ribs, his perforated flesh along his legs, the dull ache of his shattered ankles, the burning welts that raced across his back, and the discomfort brought by the bubbling of the blood trapped within his lungs that came with every breath. At least he wasn't in the solid blackness anymore.

At least he wasn't there anymore.

He'd thought, while he'd been trapped in that cell, that his life had been screaming with reckless speed beneath the sound of hope.

Now, hope was once again in his heart and his spirit.

With silent reservation that he swore to himself he would never repeat or at least wouldn't dare repeat until he'd gathered more evidence of the existence of such a being, Duo did something that as a child he promised he would never do.

Lifting his untapped hand, he crossed himself and quietly, very quietly, gave thanks to the God that Father Maxwell had preached to him about. To the God he'd cursed for taking the kindly Father and his dear Sister Helen needlessly away from him. To the God he'd told the priest did not exist.

To the God he was beginning to wonder about giving a second chance to.

"Thank you," he offered in the still silence of his room.

With one more quick, guilty crossing, Duo allowed himself to drift into slumber.

-- 19:02, 2 Days Ago --

Duo bit his tongue as the whip raced for his back once again. A bitter scream flew from his lips.

"No one will hear you, Duo," Xavier's cheerful voice slid from behind, mocking and bright. "So be a good boy and don't ruin your voice by screaming. You've yet to tell me anything I want to know."

A hiss escaped the boy as he laid on the floor. Blood seeped the shredded remnants of his t-shirt and lay scattered about the room, staining the floor beneath and around him. "I told'ja…" Duo gasped, "I ain't got any information for ya."

The whip fell again.

"I don't know anything!" Duo shrieked as it sliced deeply into his flesh.

Xavier arched a brow as he tossed the whip aside, looking at the decimated remains that lay at his feet. "Certainly you wouldn't continue to lie to me, would you? Even for your dear friends' sakes?"

A whimpered sigh. "Listen, man, I don't know anything…."

"I don't believe you."

Duo's voice screeched, its tones audible down through the hallways.

Xavier smirked, one hand still firmly gripping the boy's right shin, the other hand holding his foot and forcing its toes to point towards the ceiling. As the braided youth writhed on the floor, his bound hands trying desperately to roll him off of his belly to relieve the incredible pressure still being exerted on his freshly broken limb, the older man tightened his grip. "Really?"

"Yes, really! I just got a damned call! It was from a pay phone with an unknown location!"

More grinding and popping sounded as the chocolate-eyed man sneered and turned the foot further, bending it so the toes faced his left foot.

"Yes! Really! God, please… please!"

Dropping that foot, Xavier swiftly bent at the waist and scooped the other. "Barton. Where did you meet him?"

Duo hesitated for a moment.

Crunch.

Tears streaming from his eyes, he grated between sobs, "In Fresno. Wat… watching you! I was gonna tail you 'cause you an' the blonde separated. That's all I know… really… I don't… I don't know where he's hidin' Quatre…"

One more scream escaped his throat before Xavier dropped his foot.

Roughly scooping Duo's right arm into his grasp, the man wrenched him to his feet.

Duo promptly fainted as his feet folded unnaturally under him, and missed the event of being thrown back into his cell.

-- 20:41 --

Duo stirred slightly, groaning quietly as he came once more into consciousness. For yet another day did that cool tile beneath his beaten body feel good, giving his fiery wounds much needed relief. A quick crack of the eye told him exactly what he already knew – he was locked in his cell.

Duo pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth, smacking his lips dryly. 'Need water… ungh,' his brain kindly observed.

A roaring headache was accosting him now. Whether from the incredible pain radiating from his wounds or the dehydrated state of his body he couldn't discern, but it was royally beginning to piss him off. 'You'd think I'd be able to just fucking die without this,' he ruefully thought. 'Just pass on into obscurity meekly and quietly, like any good little mouse smashed in a trap. But nooooo, I've gotta go with a pounding headache after being tortured and then water-starved to death. Man, does my fate ever totally suck.'

He would have tried to squirm, his ribs hurting fiercely and prompting him to move, but an attempted wiggle of his toes told him all he needed to know; any movement with his ankles so completely shattered would probably just knock him into that wondrous state called unconsciousness again.

A heavy sigh leaked from his lungs. 'Maybe I outta just knock myself out,' he pondered. 'Let Death claim my soul in the comfort of blackness, where the pain of my body can't reach me. It's so very close anyway… Shinigami's practically jumping for joy, staring at me, inviting his mortal incarnation to come home….'

'Heero… gomen. Won't be seeing you again, apparently. Never got the chance t'tell ya nothin'….'

Footsteps tapped outside of his cell, their sound soft.

'Nani?' Duo's mind squeaked, suddenly alarmed. 'Don't tell me he's coming back for more… God, just kill me now… please…!'

Silence. Footsteps were heard again, slowly approaching the cell.

Duo moaned quietly, "How many times do I have to say it? I know nothing… please… just let me die."

No response met him.

'That's unusual,' the boy thought silently. 'Usually he starts mocking me right about now, then yanks the door open and drags me off for his fun-fun time. Change of plans? Or if it's that guy Sogran….'

'Sogran would call Xavier over and have him try to pump me some more, just for the hell of it.'

After a few more moments of silence, the thick deadbolt that held the cell's door shut clicked solidly as it slid into its housing, releasing its death grip on the door jamb. A loud squeal accompanied the opening of the portal as it grated along its rusty hinges.

Duo squinted as light fell across his face. Curiosity overriding his common sense that was screaming at him to simply lie still and let whoever was coming to finish him come in and complete the job, he couldn't stop himself from trying to get a glimpse of who his silent executioner was.

He stared dumbly, not a response coming to his lips or his mind, as his gaze fell across the short figure silhouetted in the bright light that poured through the doorway.

Construction boots, tops covered by denim jeans, softly tapped against the tile as the thin person with the ragged hair made its way to Duo's side. A tanned hand reached with almost ridiculous slowness to lightly brush heavily calloused fingertips over the beaten boy's cheek.

Duo's voice finally rasped out of his days-dry throat. "Heero?"

A silent nod rustled dark brown bangs that hung wildly about the thin face. Dark Prussian blue eyes swiftly swept their gaze over the entirety of the sprawled bloodstained body that lay upon the cold floor, and slender lips curled slightly at the corners towards the collar of the loose denim jacket that rested over thin shoulders. "Can you stand?" his voice softly whispered, gently caressing the braided youth's ears.

"Nope," Duo groaned, lifting a finger to point at his feet. "Did quite a number."

Another small nod acknowledged Duo's answer. "Then just be quiet."

Duo had to bite his lip to keep from screaming as Heero lifted him as gently as he possibly could into his arms. He tasted copper even as he was cradled against the other boy's strong chest.

"It'll be alright," Heero softly said, pressing his nose against chestnut bangs. "I'll get you out of here."

"Always counting on you… rescuin' me."

"Be quiet. We'll talk when we're clear."

Being quiet wasn't at all a problem for Duo. He fell into the dark swirling waters of unconsciousness the moment Heero's running gait jarred his beaten body, the Perfect Soldier's attempts to keep his swift sprint as smooth as possible for the benefit of the one he carried in his arms completely in vain.

He was well on his way into that dark, inviting silence when he heard on the edge of his ears the reverberating blast of an explosion.

-- 21:16 --

Stars were racing by.

A start wrenched Duo fully awake, letting his eyes spring open and allowing those cobalt blue orbs absorb their surroundings. "Wha…?" he attempted to start, ending his impromptu sentence with volatile coughing.

Instantly Heero was at his side, holding him gently in strong hands as cough after cough shook his frame. "Don't speak more than you need to."

A miserable nod served as Duo's acknowledgement even as he glanced about to determine what exactly was going on. He took in with almost insane glee their surroundings – they were in an ambulance. Looking down, he stared at the IV needle punched into his skinny, shaking hand, held in place by tape. And only after noticing that needle did he feel the pressure of the gas mask upon his face and the suction cups plastered to his thin, bare chest. Questioning eyes stared at Heero.

"I called for assistance from the pay phones that were outside of the building you were being held in. I couldn't carry you all the way to the hospital on my own." Heero bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

Duo blinked a few times as what the other boy was saying sank into his skull. Very softly, very slowly, trying his best to not aggravate his hoarse, dry throat, he whispered, "You were looking?"

"Aa." A small nod rustled the boy's bangs.

"Why?"

Prussian blue eyes closed, Heero shrugged. "Intuition. I thought I should. I… I felt that I needed to see you again."

The smallest of smiles turned the ends of Duo's lips.

"Yes, really," Heero snorted, cutting him off before he could begin to speak. "I don't know why, but three days ago I was struck by the urge to see you again. So I started trying to seek you out. You weren't at your usual hideouts. Hilde was complaining that you hadn't shown up for work in a week, and you skipped out on your date."

A sheepish bow of Duo's head hid his eyes from Heero's accusatory stare.

Blinking, Heero shook his head. "It was then that I started to worry."

"Date?" Duo croaked out.

"No. Not showing up for work. I know she feeds you for free when you're there."

Narrowed eyes and a snarl tried to pummel the Japanese boy across the distance that lay between his seat and the bed.

Responding with a slight smile, Heero shook his head. "I couldn't track you down, no matter what I tried. Hilde and her sarcasm were my only recourse. It was she who mentioned that, and also brought up your rather insatiable appetite when it comes to Chef Boyardee goods." Blinking a few times, he let his gaze rest over Duo, then allowed a smirk to twitch its way across his lips as he followed with, "And by the way, I'm not jealous if you're dating Hilde."

"Oh really," Duo snorted as promptly as he could without eliciting another bout of snarled coughs from his throat.

"Really. I know it wouldn't last."

An arched chestnut brow and an accusatory glare met Heero's face.

A chuckle escaped the darker-haired boy as he lightly laid his hand over the shaking fingers of his friend's hand. "You're easy to read, baka."

As silence descended between them, Duo staring at Heero and attempting to figure out how much of his befuddled mind the soldier had managed to figure out, Heero staring at Duo and wondering if he would break the silence within the next thirty seconds or actually wait a minute before unleashing with the underlying train of thought that was burgeoning between his eyes and behind threatening to derail itself upon his tongue, the stars rolled by outside.

Soon enough, as twenty seconds came to an end, Duo whispered, "I've gotta tell ya somethin'."

Heero nodded. 'First suspicion was correct. Hn.' "Tell me after you get settled in. We're here."

Duo didn't have a chance to even voice an acknowledgement as he was hoisted with as much mercy as possible from the back of the ambulance and wheeled rapidly into the building he'd failed to notice they'd stopped at.

He watched blankly as white lights flew overhead and the sterile smell of the emergency ward blanketed him in serenity and relief.

-- 22:00 --

Duo lay calmly on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was beginning to slowly lose sensation in his extremities; the drugs that were laced vigorously throughout the saline bag that hung above his head on its metal stand finally beginning to flow more uniformly through his bloodstream. A small sigh escaped his lungs. It had been thirty minutes since he'd been wheeled into the emergency ward. And here he was, waiting patiently on a doctor as he was in no immediate danger of dying.

After all, it was just busted bones, as he'd told the nurses. But no, they'd insisted that they get him immediately on something that was making him feel wonderfully numb. He had no doubt that he'd be knocked clean out in the next half hour or less at the rate things were going.

There were two on-shift doctors in the ward that night. They'd called in two more thanks to a traffic accident that had occurred in the traffic-tunnels near the establishment involving four vehicles and an abnormally high amount of serious injuries incurred from said accident. So Duo, smiling and showing vigorous signs of well-being despite broken bones, was given a numbing agent and prepared to wait for the next available surgeon to stare in horror at the mess splayed across the black slides that had been brought back from radiology and figure out where to start repairing the young man.

He wore his mask well.

Duo was in far worse shape than he'd let those who examined him witness, merely minutes away from losing consciousness once more to his dehydrated body in an effort to conserve what little liquid was left in his body by not expending it through any extraneous activities before they'd plunged an intravenous needle into his arm and set a saline drip running into his water-depleted system. Certainly they would figure out his situation sooner than later, but at least for now he had been able to convince them that all he had wrong with his body was his plethora of broken bones and that he'd be perfectly fine waiting for a surgeon to free himself from the fiasco caused by the multi-car pileup.

It gave him time to talk to Heero.

He stared almost incredulously at the boy seated next to his bed, daring him to make a single statement hinting that he shouldn't be attempting to stay up. To Duo's pleasure, though, Heero's attention was focused instead on the doorway, almost daring anyone to come in and chase him out. He'd fought tooth and nail to stay by his friend until the surgeon came away from his current patient, and be damned if any nurse was going to drag him away.

Turning his gaze to Duo, Heero blinked a few times. "You said you wanted to tell me something?" he began softly, his voice as soft and gentle as his touch was as he lightly traced his thickly calloused fingertips over the braided youth's arm.

"Mm. Yeah," Duo replied. "Wanted to tell you about what's going on."

"Please, explain," Heero quietly prodded.

"Remember what I told you? About what happened six months ago, after your dumb ass tried to self destruct and I went to Quatre's manor out in the boondocks of the Arabian deserts?"

Mulling over Duo's question for a few moments, Heero slowly brought his memories of that disjointed conversation to the forefront of his mind. "You told me that Trowa was there. That he was being used like you were as a pawn by Quatre without your knowledge to pull information from a man named Gregory Channok, and that Quatre himself was trapped. That you had to involve yourself with less than reputable members of society because they were working for Quatre as you two were, though they were considerably more knowledgeable of their state."

"Remember what I told you about those three?"

Hero scratched his chin. "That they were all spies, and you thought that they were the ones who actually undermined Quatre's attempts to learn about the Romefeller Foundation from within. That you wouldn't trust them as far as you would throw them. One was a stocky man who was killed by the other. One was a jester much like you. And the last one was a creep who got off on torturing people." Nodding his satisfaction with his recall, Heero focused his intense eyes on the far too pale boy on the bed. "Is that not correct?"

"Yeah," Duo admitted, "it is."

"Why did you ask if I remembered? Making certain I was paying attention?" An amused huff of breath leaked from the soldier's nostrils.

"Nah. Because what's going on now has something to do with them."

"Elaborate."

Duo stared at the ceiling almost dreamily. "Because Xavier Johnson – the jester, as you said – is working for this guy named Sogran. They're trying to kill Quatre. They've even got one of his employees on their side, and they're gonna play him until they drag him into their net and he can't escape. They know 'bout Tro being involved. And they know 'bout Tro an' me being Gundam pilots. They've even got James Waverly… the guy who gets off on torture, ya know? They've caught him. He was working with Tro to save Quatre from them… an' he and Tro are the ones who know where Quatre is. But they're gonna use this guy they've got as a trump card to flush him out… they're gonna fuckin' kill him."

Heero stared blankly as Duo's cobalt eyes watered.

"They're gonna fuckin' kill him, and there ain't nothin' I can do about it. Can't even fucking warn him, because I'm stuck in a God damned hospital room. And because Quatre isn't picking up the phone if he doesn't recognize the number these days. Can't blame the little guy, but still…."

A finger brushed over Duo's lips, effectively silencing him. Hard Prussian blue eyes stared into dark, nearly violet irises as the thin-lipped mouth slowly whispered, "He won't die, Duo."

Duo blinked.

"You'll be safe here. The Preventer base is right across the Lunar Valley, correct?"

"One crater over and straight on 'till mornin'," Duo joked wearily.

"I'm certain that they can spare someone to stand watch over you."

Duo watched the other boy warily as Heero straightened his stance and pulled his denim jacket closed, carefully sliding one button after the other through the holes that were designed for them. "What are you thinking? Are you-"

The braided boy's questions came to a quick halt as soft lips gently pressed against his.

After many a long moment, Heero turned to walk towards the door. Before moving, he glanced over his shoulder, giving the braided boy a parting stare that spoke volumes of his commitment to his newest task.

"Be safe, will you?" Duo ordered softly.

"Aa."

As the dark-haired boy left the room and was escorted away by hospital employees, Duo let his head press more firmly into his pillow. "You better be safe, baka."

A wistful smile pressed over his lips.

"Thank you, though."

"Thank you for protecting him in my stead."

"Best of luck finding out what's going on, Heero."

Yellow construction boots tapped lightly on the hospital blue tile as their wearer made his way towards the green exit sign and the door said sign hung above.

'Sogran,' his brain processed. 'Sogran, and some employee of Winner's who's going to turn against him.'

'Sogran, who knows about the Gundams and those who pilot them.'

'I have to find Trowa to learn what he knows.'

Even as Duo was being admitted to surgery, Heero was shouldering the duffel bag he'd hidden near the establishment he'd so recently stolen his friend from, having taken a quick taxi ride to retrieve his belongings. Turning on his heel, the soldier walked the cement, quietly listening to the lament of fate.

'Once again, the threat of darkness is hovering over the promise of fate. Just as it did in the 170's, when the colonies were banding despite Earth's protests. Just as it did until it descended fully, smothering the hope of the colonies under its shroud with the death of Heero Yuy.'

'Once again, peace is being threatened by the possibility of one simple assassination.'

Looking at the Earth as it hovered in the night sky, Heero's eyes narrowed slowly. 'It's calling again. The land of a thousand guilts with its lighted towns and cities. It's crying to have the new peace that's fallen upon it preserved.'

'Ninmu ryuoukai.'

An hour later the last flight leaving the Lunar Space and Air Station was screaming faster than the speed of sound for the blue sphere that hung tauntingly in the black curtain of space, beckoning even those children who'd abandoned its solid foundation for the lusty siren of vacuum with its stars to come home and bury their feet in her soil once more.

Heero stared as the glowing orb swelled slowly with time's passage in the window he was seated beside. He stared with empty eyes, their Prussian blue depths concerned not with what lay in the star-laced field beyond the protective glass that shielded him from the deadly environment that beckoned to him.

He did not see the blue and swirling white that bewitched all others who stared at their celestial mother from the heavens. Heero instead saw a mission.

A dark mission that brought the nagging pull of worry to his mind.

_tbc..._


	18. Chapter XVII

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_The empty bodies stand at rest  
casualties of their own flesh  
afflicted by their dispossession  
but no bodies ever knew  
no bodies_

_Bodies_

-- 05:57 --

Drip.

The thick sound of liquid falling from a great distance to collide with a shallow pool of wetness slid slimily through the heavy atmosphere.

Drip.

It was rhythmic, occurring at easily deciphered and determined intervals.

Drip.

So heavy, so thick, congealing even as it fell, the force of its strike destroying its shape-defining protective skin.

Drip.

So impossible to tell if that sound that was slowly driving the groggy mind that focused on the musical beating of that liquid into its haven insane was the heavy crash of water oozing from the ceiling's cracks or the warm thump of viscous blood from the battered body tethered tightly to the wooden slab that dominated the quiet room's center.

Blood-crusted lashes fought a valiant battle against that dried prison that held them together, lacing bottom and top eyelid together like threads controlled by an earnest tailor's needle. Many a long minute lapsed until those lashes were successful, parting themselves from their brethren, encouraging the rust-colored coating that held them closed to flake away. A few desperate blinks and a bit of irritation-induced watering of the glazed eyes that lay below those newly opened eyelids swiftly cleared them of those particles of dried blood that had drifted onto their smooth surfaces.

Drip.

A quiet groan leaked from a dried throat as dark hazel eyes tried desperately to focus on the ceiling that dominated their view.

It definitely wasn't water dripping, that much was certain. Such was easily attained by the view those eyes absorbed, one of a perfectly dry white stucco ceiling.

Waiting for many moments for any indication of the presence of the other he knew to be about the premises he existed in to make itself evident in his mind, the man focused on the lumpy ceiling coating. After a time, he let his eyes drift shut again, focusing instead on those senses other than sight, letting the attentions of his brain focus on each sense individually. Hearing revealed nothing other than the soft continuous plopping of droplet after droplet of warm wetness against the floor and the skinned puddle that rested there. Smell caught the copper of fresh blood and the faint odor of floral-scented Lysol spray combined with the heady scent of orchard Wizard air-fresheners. Somewhere else in the house, a faint popping sound burst into existence for the flitting flash of an instant. The expansion of glass in its framed window as it was heated by a rising sun. It was morning.

The fact that it was morning was soon confirmed as the bright singing of songbirds, muffled by curtains, walls and thick windows. One more opening of the eyes added evidence to the weary brain that drove his actions, taking in the addition of yellowed rays of fluid sunlight mingling haplessly with the artificial white light cast by the fluorescent bulbs that lit the room from lamps he had yet to spot.

Turning his head slightly to change his scenery, the trapped man stared.

The white, featureless ceiling topped what to any ordinary view would be considered to be a perfectly homey guest bedroom. The walls, white-painted, had wallpaper scrollwork running along the border between vertical shield from the outdoors and expansive ceiling that featured sponge-painted forest green and golden brown leafs. A torch lamp with three reaching branches, each holding aloft a plastic white lampshade circling a fluorescent bulb, shed its light over the room to add illumination to those reaches that the sun had not yet reached. A wood desk sat flush against the wall opposite of the room's sole window, its top bearing the weight of a computer and its keyboard and a large cardboard box. The student-chair before it was well worn, sagging from a furniture piece's life of use. The window through which the sun's morning light streamed was covered with thin, gauzy white drapes that also sported the same sponge-paint styled leafs featured on the wallpaper boarders. Turning the exploring gaze a bit further down revealed a hardwood pine floor that shined with a fresh coat of mop and glow and a matching wallpaper boarder to what ran along the walls' tops along the bottom of those walls to even more clearly define the border between floor and white-painted partition.

All and all, it was something Martha Stewart would have enjoyed playing with.

"Heh. Nothing like waking up to lil' Ms. Homemaker's beauty-dream," he quietly snorted to himself. He shivered slightly as the clonk of the air conditioner turning on rattled from a nearby air vent and cool air stirred the atmosphere. A chilled breeze caressed his bare chest, brushing over dried fluids and still partially liquid puss that oozed from infected cuts and scrapes. Goosebumps threatened to break out along his bare arms which were strapped down to the rough wooden plank he laid on, tethered along his sides, his thumbs pressed delicately against the rough, sliced fabric of his decimated jeans. Numb toes failed to feel the chill of the new breeze of air, barely flexing when he tried to move their bare joints. He snorted, noting that the lack of circulation to his feet caused by the overly tight straps that held his ankles in place would make it a hassle to try to stand later, should he actually manage to get himself loose.

However, there didn't seem to be that much of an opportunity for escape again. Not like there was last time, where a quick hoisting of the body allowed his feet to be kicked free of their restraints and entwined into the rope that had held him suspended from the ceiling, where upside-down he was able to slacken the loops on his wrists enough to free them and drop to freedom.

He'd been moved from that easily escaped from location. Wasn't the first time he'd been moved, though his brain was kindly informing him that it would probably be his last. Given the extent of infection and the plethora of injuries he'd received over his time in his captor's care, he doubted he'd survive to see yet another new prison.

This was the third time he'd woken up to new scenery.

This would have fooled nearly anyone caught in a similar situation as himself into believing that those who'd managed to capture him had been continually on the move, absconding with his beaten body once he fell into the deep shadows of unconsciousness to a new hiding place to cover their activities and keep their possession of their vital prisoner secreted away from any prying eyes that would seek him. Indeed, the first few moment after opening his eyes and witnessing the new span of scenery presented for him had driven a hard stake of fear through his wildly beating heart every time he'd awakened to such a sight.

The first time he'd awakened after being clonked over his head with a tire iron upon returning to the vehicle he'd hitched a ride in from the Pacific Coast Highway after paying for gasoline for the young lady who drove that truck, he'd been staring at a dark concrete ceiling. He'd been locked into a basement and left in a lump on the ground, his hands and feet bound together like those of a hogtied calf.

His companions in that chamber were a rack holding its prized jars stuffed with pickles and preserves and a light bulb on its wire that shed faded yellow light to the dark wood walls and concrete floor of the room. From time to time, the young lady he'd met on the freeway he'd been picked up on would also visit him, accompanied by questions, drugs and knives.

'She certainly does have a touch for kitchen items,' he silently reflected.

Those poorly made kitchen implements had caused a considerable amount of damage to his frame and flesh over the days they were utilized against him in a desperate attempt to cause him enough pain to encourage him to divulge in the information she wished to pry from his mind.

He'd lost track of time in that dim cell as her, in his opinion, poorly drawn torture continued. He suspected it had been four days from the day he'd mistakenly let his trust for people with beautiful eyes and soft smiles lead him into that rusted pickup truck before he'd awakened to a darkly decorated dungeon.

That time he'd woken up strapped to the wall, obviously taken to his upright position by an intricate pulley system. That same pulley system, the double-wheeled hefting device bolted to the ceiling above his head in that chamber, also assisted his tormenter by servicing as a makeshift rack to stretch his frame, tearing his limbs from their sockets painfully.

He'd seen the rise of the sun six times through the window this room sported, the day's star casting its light upon him even though dark brown drapes tried desperately to keep it from caressing him or the wood panel walls he was shackled to. His feet attested to his eyes' observations, noting that indeed they'd not had a break in nearly a week from the effort of holding his body upright, protesting even though they were encased in soft brown carpeting. That room was stark and bare, not even holding within it a lamp for light. The woman who held him came only when the sun was up, utilizing it as her torch to see her handiwork by.

And this morning, his eyes were staring with bland disinterest at his mockingly cheerful surroundings.

He'd been moved, that was certain. But it was no drastic change in location.

The beaten man sneered, nearly laughing out loud at his captor's audacity to believe that such a simple ploy as moving him from room to room within the same household would confuse him enough to eradicate his stubborn refusal to spill his knowledge.

He couldn't be fooled so easily.

After all, the neighborhood outside felt exactly the same. The same people, the same spirit, the same life throbbed through the area.

His eyes closed as he tenderly sent his thoughts flying to the birds that sang outside of his window, greeting them as tenderly as any could. This morning, though, he left not only his welcoming feelings with the avian creatures that dwelled in the freedom of the outdoors.

Accompanying that greeting came a plea.

The chirping outside faded earlier than normal. Beyond the notice of any ordinary human, the flow of life from the trees outside and the purpose held in the complexly instinctual minds of those birds that flew a brash indicator of something being extraordinarily out of the norm to any gifted by the touch of vacuum.

The birds flew with a mission implanted in their brains. They sought another with the same touch, the same aura as the one who'd greeted them every morning for the past ten days.

They hunted for another newtype.

-- 14:43 --

"So you're awake. Finally," the young lady said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she checked her prisoner over. "And here I thought you'd died before telling me anything useful."

A snide chuckle leaked weakly from the lank frame that lay tethered to the wooden slab that served as a bed. "Keep this up and I might, kiddo."

Crossing her arms, she looked blandly down at the man she had captured. "Indeed," she huffed. "Attempting to insult the quality of my work again?"

Sneering, he closed his dark hazel eyes, relishing the black emptiness of restful darkness provided by his eyelids. "What quality? You forget – torture's my forte, babe. Now while I'll admit that what you're doing should almost be effective, I'll also tell you that you're too much of an amateur to get anything useful out of someone who's experienced in this field."

"You've been telling me that for a week now."

"And have you gotten anything from me?"

Her silence was his answer.

Slowly opening an eye, he let his sneer fade to a more gentile smirk. "So, going to continue along this useless path, girl?"

She glared at him reproachfully. "It's not entirely useless."

"You're not going to get the kid's location through me." A quiet laugh oozed liquidly from his throat as he flexed his fingers, relishing in the jolts of painful sensation that flew along his nerves, taking those stabbing flares as a reminder of his situation. "Hell, my little helper monkey's probably moved him by now. My knowledge is old hat."

A smile turned her full lips into a quirky smile, her red lipstick bright and wet in the morning sunlight. "I see. Then you truly are useless to us, aren't you?"

"Yep. Afraid so," he agreed.

"But there's other questions you could have easily answered over the course of the last few days. Yet you've refused to enlighten me as to your purposes."

The man glared playfully at her. "That's because my plans are mine alone. They've got nothin' to do with you, nor do they have anything do to with your employer."

Her lips twisted into a sneer. "That's what you think."

Clearing his throat, he looked blandly at her. "I can guarantee that they have nothing to do with Jon Fugardi."

The young woman's retort was cut short as the name 'Fugardi' flowed over her captive's lips. Her red lips moved soundlessly, her cheeks draining of color under the faint layer of blush that artificially lit them with a pale pink glow.

"Indeed," he quietly said, "my suspicions were right. He's working with your organization, I see. How much did he pay for you?"

White teeth clenched into a faint snarl. "How much do you know?"

A bitter laugh leaked from his throat as he clenched his hand, wincing as a sharp crack burst from his joints even as he discretely tested his new bonds. Finding them quite capable of holding, he focused his gaze on her face once more. "More than you suspect. Xavier's good, but not good enough to hide what he's doing from me. The paper trail that tied him to Mr. Fugardi was difficult to piece together, that I'll give him. He's definitely improved from the last time I had to deal with him as an enemy."

Walking to the desk that occupied the room, the young woman grabbed the chair that sat before it. Rolling it to the slab that held her prisoner, she sighed and flopped down in it. Crossing her legs carefully, her tight jeans clinging to her shapely legs, she folded her hands on his chest. "Talk."

"Gladly. Just not 'bout anything of relevance as far as the kid's concerned."

She gritted her teeth, her hands separating, her nails digging into already lacerated flesh and teasing the barely closed wounds back open. As he hissed softly and the steady drip of blood hastened its pace, escorted to its destination by troughs built into that slab he laid upon that gathered what leaked from his body for neat disposal, she quietly whispered, "Why do you protect him?"

Hazel eyes closed, he snorted. "I have my reasons."

"Talk!"

Cracking open his eyes once more, he looked at the young brunette with amusement lighting his gaze through the pained cloud that dominated their irises. "Because he's necessary. And if you know nothin' 'bout the Plan, my words would be meaningless to you."

"But they won't be meaningless to him," she encouraged. "All you have to do is give me something relevant. Give me something helpful, and I'll release you."

His eyes softened slightly. "Lyssa," he quietly began, "you know I can't."

She frowned. "But you know that she's missing you. That she's worried about you. And you know that Xavier…."

"Xavier won't touch her."

The woman named 'Lyssa' arched a brow. "How can you be so certain? He's told me about what happened before."

"I can be certain. He won't touch her if it won't push me into action. Xavier may be a heartless fuck-head, but he won't kill without need. He only murders when hired to."

"Rather like you?"

Hazel eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. "I suppose."

Bowing her head, she huffed. "You can stop now."

Arching a brow, he turned his gaze to her.

A scowl lit her lips. "He told me about you. What you are. What you're capable of."

Light laughter rang from the captive on the table. "And obviously you didn't heed him, if your defenses let me in to this extent. Xavier's a perceptive little cuss if he figured enough out to warn you."

"He said you've made it obvious."

"I guess Chad was an obvious hint."

She frowned. "The one you used as a distraction? The one you sacrificed to keep your escape from Channok's stronghold under cover? The one you tried to use to steal the Winner heir's plans for the Gundam attacks?"

A snicker leaked from his throat. "Xavier told you that shit, eh? Thanks for letting me know that he still has no clue as to what my true purposes are."

She glared. "Two-faced-"

"Asinine jerk? I know, I know."

"Why do you have to make this harder than it already is?"

"Because you want me to betray the kid. You practically want me to kill him for you. And unfortunately, that's just not going to happen. He's too important to the formation of the future to be sacrificed just yet."

Lyssa scowled. "We'll target her if it'll get you to talk, you know."

Her captive smirked. "Best of luck. I'll be dead before you reach her at this rate, so targeting her'll do no good. Can't use a loved one to motivate a dead man to do anything. You're good at causing pain, but not at moderation. No consideration for the limitations of the human body. Ever stop to think that blood-loss is probably making me too damned loopy to answer you coherently?"

"But you're tormenting me with perfect clarity."

"Because I'm sharper than most, Lyssa. Most other men would've just given up by this point. I enjoy being an ass too much to die just yet. Plus, I've yet to discover what Xavier's true motives are. Can't give up 'till I do."

The young woman arched a slim brow. "True motives?"

"Yeah. This ain't as simple as starting a new war for Century Discover's profit. Maybe that's the plan of the corporation, and maybe that's the plan of the White Fang, but it's not Xavier's motive. He's an idiot and an incompetent fool, but he's not quite that shallow. He's got to have a few more angles to this than what I've been allowed to find. And I'm willin' to bet that it's something fairly detrimental to you and your organizations."

Her slim fingers dug back into the warm flesh under her hands. "Damn you, James. Talk! What do you mean?"

Hazel eyes stared into fierce brown orbs, locking gazes.

She blinked rapidly, her lucid thoughts pouring over the surface of her mind despite her attempts to focus on everything and nothing.

"Your loyalties don't lie with him. They lie with your White Fang compatriots. So why did you let Fugardi buy you, knowing that he's working in correlation with Xavier for Century Discover? Not money…."

She stared.

"The promise of revolution and the death of the traitor to space." Eyes closing, color-drained face soft and at ease, he smirked. "I can't get the answers I want from you. But I can warn you – Xavier's as two-faced as they come. He and I have been working companions for nearly a decade. Hell, at one point in my life I might have considered him a friend. But he's betrayed me as completely as any person possibly can. He's betrayed those closest to him – don't for a single moment believe that he won't betray you."

Bowing her head, she slowly lifted her hands and set them instead in her lap. "You…."

"Why does Fugardi want Winner dead?"

"I can't tell you that."

James quietly pressed, "Why are you working with him?"

"The pay is decent," she softly admitted. "I can help support our cause by working with him."

"I see. And you have no clue about the true purpose behind Century Discover or Xavier Johnson?"

She started suddenly, the haze lifting instantly from her mind. Her chocolate eyes narrowed, instantly hardened as she realized what was occurring. "Bastard!" she snapped as she flew to her feet, her chair rolling swiftly away with her movement and colliding solidly with the wall behind her. "Mind-raping bastard! How dare you!"

Hazel eyes widened slightly. 'Shit. Pushed a bit much. Boy, is she royally pissed….'

She stormed across the room to her cardboard box and swiftly routed through it.

Moments later, the trickle of blood that poured into the bucket at the end of that wooden rack hastened its pace.

-- 23:00 --

She was seated once more at the end of the hastily constructed wooden rack her captive was tied to, staring ponderously at his prone form.

"Why don't you end your suffering?" she softly asked. "Why do you continue to refuse to tell me anything? You hint about Xavier being more of a traitor than anyone's taking him for. You hint that Century Discover's betraying us. You hint that Mr. Fugardi's only in this for personal gain. But you don't tell me anything important. You don't tell me what I need to know."

"Because I don't know," he feebly muttered. "I don't know the kid's position. I don't know what Xavier's up to. I don't know why Fugardi's betraying his boss and trying to see him assassinated. I don't know what Century Discover's angle with the White Fang is."

"There's a lot you don't know," she said quietly, folding her arms on the edge of that slab upon which he was lain.

"Welcome to my world of frustration, girl," he chuckled softly. "A world where half of the answers are dangled before your face and the other half so strewn about that you can't hope to grab 'em all before the winds of time carry them off."

A slight smile took her lips. "Hmph. Drugs taking effect yet?"

"Might be. Ask me somethin'."

"You're really one of them, aren't you?" she tested.

"Yep," he answered quite truthfully.

"Why did you really use Mr. Lesley, if not for the purpose that Xavier told me?" she continued.

"Because I wanted to destroy the files Xavier was after. The kid knows his plans. He just keeps 'em in hard form in case something detrimental should happen to his harried brain to cause him to momentarily forget where he is and what he's doing. Plus hard copies can be forwarded to others for review and approval. Wasn't trying to steal his plans for the Gundams at all. Was trying to keep 'em out of Xavier's grubby li'l hands."

"But you were both working for Romefeller, weren't you?" she pressed.

"Nope. I was working for Kesslinger."

"Who's a part of Romefeller."

"Yet is independent of it. Just because he was head of the organization, leading it from behind Dermail with suggestions and whispered plans doesn't mean that he entirely believed in the direction it was inevitably going to take. He was trying to alter its path. I was trying to help him."

"And Xavier?"

"Was after the almighty paycheck," James softly said. "It's what's always motivated him. He's never had clear purpose. Only greed defines his life these days, it seems."

"You seem disappointed," she softly said.

"I am. Used to be a time when his want to control everything around him, to prove himself superior to everyone in his vicinity, pushed him to accomplish the impossible. I think once he realized that he was a step down on the evolutionary ladder with space adjusting the human physiological makeup, that he by biological standards alone couldn't be superior to all who surrounded him, he gave up on his goals and turned instead to simply chasing the dollar."

"You preferred him as he was?"

James softly chuckled. "He was more predictable. Now he's more of a wild card than anything."

Lyssa smirked. "That truth serum works wonders, doesn't it?"

"Sure does," the longhaired man said, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Tell me why it took you so damned long to think of this."

"Because I thought I might be able to torture the information I want out of you."

"That all?" James asked.

"And I was out of vinegar in the house. With the truck's engine blown, I couldn't make it down to the store until today to get some more. Had to wait for the repairman to get out here and repair it. Plus you trying to escape has been keeping me a bit busy."

"Got'cha," he said with a vague attempt at a nod.

"So, where's the Winner boy?"

"Never really knew," he softly said, staring still at the ceiling. "Just met him on the beach because I determined that he'd be able to find me there. I have no idea where he was saying, or where he'd be at this time. Plus I'm willing to bet that Barton's got him moved by now out of fear that he'd be traced."

She sighed, bowing her head. "Damn."

"Any more? This is rather fun," James joked.

"Asshole," she muttered.

"Hmph."

"You realize that your lack of useful information is going to push him to have me kill you."

"I don't mind."

Lyssa stared. "You don't mind?"

"Nope."

"Why not?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Don't you care about the life you have waiting for you? About your loved ones?"

"Yeah, I care, most unfortunately," James quietly said, closing his eyes. "I care plenty. Always have believed that love is fucking suicide, but couldn't quite keep it from happening. But just as there was nothin' I could do to keep myself from traipsing down a path I knew would result in my death, there's nothing I can do to avoid whatever fate's going to come my way because of this wondrous fiasco Xavier had to get me involved in. There's nothing I can do from this position to protect the future that's slowly forming. And if I can't protect the future, if I can't help turn it towards what Kesslinger dreamed, it's simply not worth striving for."

"Were his plans so great?" she whispered.

"They were in my eyes. Maybe not his methods, maybe not his ultimate goals, but the ideology behind his ideas was fantastic. And while it might not have a snowball's chance in hell of happening during my lifetime, it's a great goal to work towards."

"What goal is that?"

He laughed softly. "A world where we belong."

"You? Clarify that, please."

"Nah. Don't feel like it."

She scowled.

"Drug wore off," he said brightly. "Sorry to tell you that, babe."

A slight smirk turned her lips once more. "Did it have any effect in the first place?"

"Truthfully?"

"Truthfully."

"Nope."

Her eyebrow ticked. "Then why did you tell me what you told me? Was everything you revealed a lie?" Lyssa snorted.

A playful smile turned James' lips. "No."

"Then why do you choose now to tell me anything? Why didn't you just decide to reveal what you know ten days ago?"

A sneer flowed over the man's lips. "Because I don't particularly care at all about everything I just told you. Most of it is information from the past that no longer has any real relevance as far as the present is concerned. And secondly, because I had to stall you for a while to keep you off the playing field and keep Xavier's eyes where they shouldn't be resting. Because I know he's looking particularly hard at you, waiting for you to pry anything that might be revealing from me and therefore isn't paying all that much attention to the playing field he's on. Because I had to give them time."

She stared. "Them…?"

"Yep. Them."

Her eyes narrowed considerably. "Damn it! Who?"

Closing his eyes, a triumphant smirk on his lips, he laughed softly. "My little helper monkey and his dear death-plagued friend. They should have pinpointed who's behind this entire fiasco by now, who's paying Xavier for his involvement with this mess, and should know what Xavier's next move will be. Winner should be more than safe."

She stared.

"Gotta love satellite phones."

Realization suddenly flashed across her eyes. "You… when you escaped that day…."

"See, girl? Doesn't matter what I tell you know. Quatre was already a step ahead of the game. I think Xavier already knew that, given the changed pattern of his behaviors. Your thoughts betray what he's done and what your organization's attempted to accomplish. The suddenness of his strikes and the random pattern in which they're occurring shows that he's desperate. And now he's dealing with more than one opponent, even with me out of the picture."

"He was dealing with more than one opponent before."

"Barton doesn't much count," James clarified with a chuckle. "He's not infiltrating. He's protecting."

"But now…."

"Yep. I've got help out there, tracking Xavier and whoever the hell it is that managed to buy the twit's attention."

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know him. And it doesn't matter. Given that kid's penchant for getting captured, he's probably already been thrown into a cell."

She blinked, obviously confused. "Then what good-"

"He's got contacts."

"Contacts?"

One more chuckle made its way from the captured man's throat. "Yeah. Contacts that'll do more harm to your little operation than you could possibly believe."

She stared, the horrible implications of his words settling over her heart.

"See, girl, we're just empty bodies in this little farce, victims of our own plots and plans, victims of our own attempts to confuse one another and the backfiring of those attempts. We're victims of our own minds, our own flesh, afflicted by our dispositions in these affairs. And as you well know, empty bodies can't accomplish anything."

"So you…."

"Got someone new into the game. Someone with enough soul to not stand around and be a useless piece on the board, awaiting the hand of the master to move it as you and I are."

She snorted.

"We wait for the game master to dictate our moves. You wait for your employer to tell you what to do. I wait for fate to determine where I go next and what I do about my situation. Even Winner waits on fates decisions. All empty bodies, all uselessly trapped on the board, all being maneuvered against our wills.

"But this new piece has enough of a soul remaining to move himself. He's not going to wait for the game master to determine where he goes."

"Who is it?"

A sneer floated over James' lips. "One of my dear little jailbait boy's contacts. The unpredictable one I can only hope had been tracking him the moment he vanished. But then again, even if he wasn't, he'll show – his bond to that kid's strong enough to draw him out of hiding."

"Who?" she demanded again.

"No one you know. Just another wildcard in the mix."

She glared coldly.

Her glower was met with a smile.

_tbc..._


	19. Chapter XVIII

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_I am never enough, I am the forgotten child  
and I said I wanna fill you up, I wanna break you, I wanna give you up  
from one another, no one should ever come  
in between us, between us and our love_

_X.Y.U._

-- 21:51 --

The wind whistled through the car's passenger compartment.

It was biting cold, sinking invisible fangs into the flesh of the two persons who sat in the plush gray leather seats of the once pristine white Mercedes. Lashing without mercy, that chill air latched icy fingers to skin, nibbling teasingly over any exposed surfaces, slipping coyly underneath clothing to brush its slithering tentacles over already shivering bodies. Its voice howled without mercy, drowning out any sound the night could have attempted to offer to the vehicle's passengers, decimating the silence that would have reigned supreme in the high-quality car's insulated and sound-dampened interior with the demolished state of the radio that once sprawled majestically over the creatively molded cockpit-styled dashboard. Sliding through the remains of the rapidly driven car, it slunk through holes in that once pristine dash, forcing the shredded material to flap loudly and add its dissatisfaction with its current condition to the loud wind's banshee screams even as the fluttering of tattered chair-coating leather beat like the flapping of fleeing birds' wings.

There was nothing that either person within the car could do to ward off the night's air or chase off the racket caused by the dark desert's chill breeze. The heater simply did not have the capability to keep up with the influx of chilly air that blasted into the car, and there were no longer any windows available to ward against its constant invasion.

Trowa was almost thankful for the cold temperature of the air. Though irritating with its chill and aggravating with its ability to slap his hair before his eyes with every breathy gust through his space, it was enough to keep him awake and aware now that the pumping adrenaline that had kept him going since early that afternoon was seeping out of his bloodstream.

He needed to stay conscious and completely aware, even without the stimulation of caffeine flowing through his veins. He needed to be alert, especially when driving at the speed he was traveling at down a desolate freeway without any street lamps to illuminate the cracked and sun-battered pavement, staring into darkness with glazed eyes without the aid of headlights to light his way.

Trowa no longer knew where they were going. All he knew was that they were apparently free of their pursuit for the moment.

And he knew that Quatre was at his side, the Kahr Arms K9 pistol that Trowa had rescued from the previous Mercedes he'd had the opportunity to drive before turning that destroyed car in to be lovingly restored and lavished over currently resting at his feet and nearly depleted of ammunition, cradling his right arm protectively. The stitches Trowa had so carefully threaded into the pale flesh of that arm's shoulder had long since ripped loose; the wound had begun to seep its last as a fresh scab was forming to ward against inevitable infection.

"Where're we going to go now?" Quatre softly questioned, his eyes as dark as the desert's night sky staying focused completely upon the black freeway before them, his pale face nearly aglow with its ghastly lack of coloration in the white rays cast by the barely present crescent moon that dangled among the brilliant stars.

"Don't know," Trowa quietly answered, shaking his head very slightly. "I think we lost them, though."

'If only I knew. Can't be certain that my stunt was enough to completely throw our pursuit. For all we know, they could be hiding ahead, having taken some back road I don't know about.'

'We can't go back to my old hotel. We can't go back to Quatre's old hotel. We can't leave for space – they'd certainly have every space port between this ocean and the Atlantic monitored, waiting for us to try and run home.'

'Where to go, indeed….'

"We should go back to the hotel."

"Are you insane?" Trowa asked, arching a brow over a disbelieving eye. "Or are you joking?"

"No and no," Quatre said with a snort. "I'm thinking we should go get those weapons we have stashed there, if our enemies haven't already absconded with them. They should rightly be there; we were so quickly pursued that I doubt they had any time to raid the room."

Trowa froze for a moment. 'That's right,' his brain kindly reminded him, ' we've got that fucking armory in that hotel room. Those weapons. Real, capable weapons. The weapons of a professional assassin, correctly outfitted and coming with enough ammunition provided in those duffle bags in the closet to take out a small regiment.'

'Definitely useful firepower for whoever gets their hands on them.'

Quatre's voice interrupted Trowa's thoughts with a chipper, "Plus James would be a bit peeved if he found his collection gone when he gets back."

"You think so?" Trowa asked inaudibly.

"Yep."

"You think he'll be coming back?" Trowa pushed. "It's been over a week since we've heard from him. He should have contacted you by now, as you ceaselessly remind me."

"I know," Quatre said with a nod, "that he's late in contacting me. And I know that can only spell trouble, because he's about the most punctual person I've ever met. However, I have faith in him. And I think that while he might not be in the best of situations, he's alive and doing what he can."

"Why do you say this?"

Quatre sighed quietly, slowly shaking his head. "Duo."

Trowa blinked. "Duo?" he repeated, his voice flooded with confusion.

"Why would he have been here, ready to go, ready for action?"

Trowa pondered that for a moment, a little frown spreading over his night-darkened lips.

"He was informed. He was told to be here. And I wasn't the one to call and ask for help." Quatre let another sigh burst from his lips. "Duo stalks me constantly, but he shouldn't have been able to pinpoint your location like he did. He should have been further west, looking for me in the Los Angeles area. The fact that he popped up in Fresno points to what must be the truth – he was tipped off by an outside source."

"You think he's the culprit in getting Duo into this fiasco?"

Quatre nodded, his motion all but invisible in the darkness that engulfed the vehicle. "I can almost guarantee it. Been giving it a bit of thought lately. He probably used a voice coder to mimic my voice. Fooled Duo into coming down here to help, because he's being kept away. Interfering idiot."

"Why Duo, though?" Trowa quietly pondered.

"Because he'd be in the area. And because James knows that Duo's competent, intelligent, and quick to quite accidentally conform to a well-developed plan."

"And you're certain it was Mr. Waverly?"

"As certain as I can be of anything, actually. It's one of the very few things I'm almost positive about in this entire scheme," Quatre huffed, closing his eyes even as he slowly pulled his hand away from his shoulder to wipe the ruby moisture that had gathered upon his palm from what had soaked through his shirt off upon his soft black slacks.

Trowa simply focused on the road, slowing and nearly stopping in the passing lane before swinging the battered vehicle through the dusty center divider of the freeway and beginning to drive back in the direction they'd just fled from, even as Quatre shook his head helplessly, hopelessly. "I hope you're right about him," the car's driver quietly offered, his monotone voice soft and as comforting as he could manage through his stressed concentration on the road and their surroundings.

"Thought you wanted him dead?" Quatre asked cheerfully.

"I do. But he's an ally right now."

Silence flowed from the car's passengers, allowing the wind to once more sound unchallenged for a few moments until Trowa chose to break it again.

"And if today's told me anything, it's that we need as many allies as we can get our hands on."

Quatre huffed quietly. "I disagree. More allies means more people being forced to take unnecessary risks. There isn't a guarantee of life and success with numbers, Trowa. However, allies of his capabilities are hard to come by – and those are the types of allies that are needed at this time."

As the wind's moaning smothered the car once more, both occupants sank into their own thoughts and worries.

The car's humming engine was almost soothing as it powered them back towards Barstow.

-- 12:30 --

Trowa stared intently at the microwave, watching with intrigued eyes as his small plastic bowl slowly spun in circles upon the rotating tray within the machine's confines, his water slowly being brought to a simmer for his Easy Mac. Listening to the vague chatter of the news emerging from the television behind him, he refused to turn his focus – indeed, all that was being put out was how the recent merger between Winner Industries and Heverworth Electrical had caused the already outrageously lucrative L4 stock to skyrocket to new highs never before seen in After Colony history. Trowa didn't need to look to know that Quatre was bouncing on the bed damned near clapping and cheering in glee.

As the microwave beeped, he pulled his bowl out of it and ripped the noodle package he'd left sitting atop the microwave oven open along its perforated seam with his teeth. Dumping his dehydrated pasta into his bowl, he stirred it vigorously and walked to the edge of the bed, facing the blonde. "Doing well, I hear."

"Amazingly so," Quatre said with a bright smile. "Larry pulls off miracles at times. First getting us a new rental car with no questions asked, and now this merger. I've got to give that man a raise when I get back to the colonies."

"Larry?" Trowa questioned, even as he sat down beside the blonde without losing momentum with his spoon, turning the noodles over and over in the steaming water he'd just prepared for them to bathe in.

"Aa. My best lawyer. Head of Winner Industries Legal Department, actually."

"Sounds like a scary man," Trowa murmured even as he pulled the cheese sauce package free of his jeans' back pocket, ripped it open with his teeth as he'd done to the casing for his noodles, and dumped its contents into his bowl before resuming his mixing.

"He's not frightening at all. He's just a very capable lawyer."

"That's what I mean. Kathy's got a million jokes about lawyers and how evil they are."

Quatre laughed softly, picking up the remote that sat next to him and flicking the channel. "Just because he's capable doesn't mean he's evil. Lawyers only do their jobs. They're not any more or less evil than a soldier acting on his orders."

Trowa nodded before lifting a spoonful of his finished culinary masterpiece to his lips and munching happily on it, resisting a wide grin as Quatre flicked the channel to ESPN.

"What'll we bet this time?" Quatre brightly chirped, smiling at the taller boy seated beside him. "Last time it was television privileges until the next game."

"Don't remind me," Trowa softly grunted past his spoon. "It's been a painful week."

"Stock reports and Earth Sphere news aren't that dull, Trowa."

"…."

Quatre laughed helplessly. "Alright, maybe they are if they're not the focus of your everyday life. Fine, I concede."

"Driving privileges."

Quatre blinked once, then twice. "Nani?"

"We'll bet driving privileges. Whoever wins drives both vehicles exclusively until the next game."

A smile twisted the blonde's lips as he nodded. "I'll agree to that. Sox to win."

"Fine," Trowa agreed, gripping his microwavable Ziploc bowl in his off-hand and clamping his teeth down onto his plastic spoon to free his other hand for the sealing shake between betting partners.

As Quatre's slender fingers encased his own, his pale palm pressed to Trowa's hand, the tanned digits slowly collapsing around the seemingly fragile, delicate limb, the ex-pilot of Heavyarms barely repressed a sigh of pleasure. 'So very soft, so utterly perfect, so deceivingly frail with so much buried strength. Even his hand reflects the whole. And I'm holding it.'

Trowa didn't fail to recognize that Quatre's hand made no immediate effort to complete their handshake and remove itself from his grasp, instead lingering upon his senses and tingling along his flesh with nearly electrical, excited energy.

As the smaller boy removed his hand from that of the sun-darkened adolescent, Trowa turned his stare to his blessed fingers.

Setting his bowl down upon the comforter at his side, Trowa promptly laced his hands together, sharing the brilliant sensation just experienced between them to keep the other from being deprived. He let the smallest of smiles turn the corners of his lips even as his emerald gaze found the television set.

Quatre leaned over, laying his blonde-topped head lightly upon a strong shoulder, calmly watching the baseball game roll into action, his attitude one of calm and collection even as Trowa's was while he stared with reserved excitement at the flickering images sprawled across the television screen.

They remained like that until the hotel room's front window shattered.

-- 23:07 --

Trowa carefully edged towards the door, his back firmly pressed against the hard wood barrier to utilize the slight protection it offered against any impending attack. His exterior remaining completely calm, the ex-pilot snarled mentally.

'Return to the hotel, he says. Right to where his enemies could be waiting for us, laying in ambush.'

'This wall would really do nothing to protect me. It's nothing more than thin drywall with crappy peeling paint on one side and worn oaken siding on the other for appearances. A .22 could go right through this. A .357, easily. And if whoever's laying in waiting for me on the other side of this wall bothered loading those guns inside of that hotel room….'

'Got to remain silent. Got to make certain they can't pinpoint my location on this side of the wall with my racket.'

Venturing one quick glance at the blonde who remained in the car, he nodded once in response to Quatre's encouraging gestures that conveyed he'd seen no one within the damaged room's interior through the shattered window's remains.

'Quatre's thinking it's clear? Best to be careful.'

'Last time I failed to take care, I ended up with broken ribs laying on a cold concrete floor in a cell.'

Reaching the doorjamb, Trowa shifted his weight slightly, resting the majority of his scant mass upon his leading foot. Emerald eyes narrowed, he quickly studied the barrier that rested between him and whatever might be waiting for him within the dark hotel room's intimidating interior.

The door creaked softly as a quiet breeze whistled past, pressing itself with the tenderness of a lover's lips upon the damaged wooden slab, sliding around its opened edges and temporarily filling the deep indentation it had recently received to mar its questionable perfection from being kicked in by unnamed assailants. Trowa stiffened as the noise touched his ears, every last nerve tingling with hinted danger.

Trowa reached with his off-hand for the door, shifting his weight just the slightest bit forward on his leading foot. Nudging the crookedly hanging slab of wood, he pressed it away with the barest tips of his fingers.

His pistol's barrel led him into the room.

Stepping lightly upon the balls of his feet, every nerve within him wired and tingling with anticipation of ambush, he let his gun lead his gaze and viewed his disarrayed room along the small pistol's sites, letting the blade that erupted from the gun's muzzle and the bar-dot rear site shadow all he stared at, the floating round orb that topped the rear site sitting with eerie steadiness atop the vision of the front blade.

It wasn't the dark environ of the room or its pitiful state that had him so on edge. It was the unnerving fact that he had only two bullets remaining in the gun including the one already in the chamber that had him fidgeting at every small scraping sound that met his ears.

'The seven shot Kahr Arms K9. The most pathetic 9mm shooter I could have possibly chosen out of the conglomeration of weapons I had available to me, and it has to be the one I have on me. Damned sad little gun.'

'Meaning that if anyone does attack, I'll have to be incredibly accurate. It doesn't do nearly enough per shot to be able to fire one of my two bullets anywhere and hope for the best. This isn't exactly a Desert Eagle in my hands.'

'Hell, this isn't even my Derringer in my hands. Even that stupid little revolver has more capacity than this thing.'

'What a cheap piece of junk, especially compared to what we're after. No wonder that asshole felt no pain in giving it to me.'

Trowa almost jumped out of his skin as he heard a bright voice chirp, "All clear. Let's get what we need and run, neh?"

Quickly pointing the small pistol's barrel to the ground, he glowered over his shoulder as fiercely as he could bring himself to. "Please, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Complain later. Let's get those guns now," Quatre said, his voice dropping instantly from jest into the flat seriousness of the businessman he was when stressed. Marching straight past his partner, the blonde swiftly grabbed the nearest briefcase in which he knew was stored one of his accomplice's potent tools.

Without voicing any complaints, Trowa joined his companion in the daunting task of loading everything that remained in the room into the Mercedes' trunk. "You realize we should get another car," Trowa muttered as he loaded gun after gun, box of ammunition after box of ammunition in the bullet-riddled compartment.

"Yeah, I do," Quatre grumbled. "Larry's going to hate me for this. Two days, two cars. I've got quite a track record against me, neh?"

Trowa smiled despite himself.

-- 12:58 --

The window exploded.

A squawk of shock escaped the blonde as he slid right off the end of the bed and hastily covered his head with his arms, trying to shield himself from whatever it might have been that caused the startling disturbance. Trowa fell right on top of him, instincts dropping him out of the range of whatever was coming for him even as his mind drove him to protect his friend, covering Quatre's slender frame with his own. His hand flailed for a moment at his waistband, gripping for what wasn't there.

'Damn it! What was I thinking, sitting around without a gun right on my person while I knew this kind of thing could happen at any time!'

'Because, silly. You'd been fooled by the relative peace we'd been experiencing for the last couple of days. You'd been fooled into thinking that we'd escaped whoever was after Quatre, and that we'd be able to just spend the rest of our time sitting here in safety without a threat within a hundred miles of us. You were sucked into the dream, even if it was only for a couple of days.'

'I let my guard slip because I believed that we'd finally found a touch of real peace.'

'I'd started doing what I wish to do – relax from being a soldier and living as a normal person.'

'That's the lull that's affected everyone and left us so unprepared for what's going on nowadays.'

'It's just like he said.'

-- 08:04, 10 Days Ago --

"A day in the sun without any worries in the world – it's almost enough to make a person believe that the memories of our recent 'peace' are something that are actually tangible."

"You mean the peace that never had a chance of lasting?" Trowa asked, glancing enviously at his partner, noting that the large, baggy orange shorts that doubled as swim trunks James wore looked a few thousand times more comfortable than the white jeans he wore would be in a few hours given the already impending heat that radiated onto the coastline.

"I mean the peace that never was," James clarified even as he began to slather the first of many coats of sunscreen onto his already darkly tanned body, taking care to get his cheeks and his nose as he began to walk towards the beach, weaving through the cars that filled the parking lot.

"We've had peace," Trowa said with a frown, doggedly following at James' heels as they made their way through the gathered vehicles. Swinging to his right, he narrowly avoided running into the breaker wall that ran along the edge of the parking lot to separate it from the sands of the beaches and keep them from filling the spaces reserved for the vehicles driven by tourists, merchants and regular visitors.

"Negative, kid. We've had the illusion of peace. The illusion which will stop living, once people figured out that it is in no way real."

"I see. So you're saying our battles resulted in nothing but an illusion?" Trowa asked as he sidestepped a roller-bladder that roared down the asphalt road that lead towards the boardwalk of Santa Monica.

"Yep. It's nothing but an illusion because nobody won it for his or herself. They just stood back and let others win it for them, so there's no way that this peace could ever be considered real. Just wait – it'll topple and fall soon enough, crumbling before the eyes of the peoples of this Earth Sphere like stale cookies stomped on by five-year-old children. Because nothing on this Earth Sphere ever lasts. Nothing but the memories of what never really was."

"Too deep for me, James."

"Figured as much."

-- 12:59 --

'I hate it when he's right,' Trowa silently growled even as he looped one arm around the small form underneath him and pressed their bodies close together.

Quatre didn't say a single word, instead silently complying with Trowa's wish for him to stay close, to stay protected, to stay in place and utilize the taller boy as his shield.

Trowa dared to lift his eyes to the window.

The bright flashes of light that skittered from the muzzles of guns stung his eyes as he stared out of the shattered glass panes. He cringed as those guns started approaching, the black-clad persons that held those guns barking orders at one another to move in and kill anything in the room that moved.

They were out of options.

Trowa's lips turned towards a scowl.

"Let's run," Quatre hissed, glancing up towards his protector with brilliant blue eyes.

Trowa stared. 'Those eyes… they're burning with life. So different from before….'

-- 15:02, 7 Days Ago --

Daring a glance, he frowned.

Though he was smiling, Quatre was staring straight ahead at the door before them. His eyes, their dark blue-green color reflecting the light that danced down upon them from the florescent bulbs that claimed the perimeter of the mirrored ceiling and shown from behind the panes of shining reflective glass that made up the walls and the top of the transportation chamber, failed to shine with a life of their own.

'Those eyes; they're completely dead.'

Glancing into the mirrored door before them himself, Trowa stared at the reflections that met his gaze.

'Just like mine.'

The door opened, destroying Trowa's view of their reflections and allowing the smiling dead-eyed blonde and his business partner to depart the elevator for the hallway that now ran before them, heading straight for the door at its very end and the office it held behind its protective shielding.

Trowa frowned as he followed.

'He's not as I remember him. The last time I saw him, his eyes were bright and beautiful, shining with the spirit and life that had almost been stolen from him by Ms. Catalonia's rapier. They shined with glee and merriment. Before that they glittered with determination and fierce desperation.'

'Now they shine with nothing at all.'

'He's still as lovely as I remember him being, but something's changed….'

'Has your life been empty these last few months as well, Quatre? Has it been as untrue as my own?'

"Are you just like me?"

-- 13:00 --

'Those eyes are so fierce. So full of life. So full of the desire to continue living….'

"Alright," Trowa said with a nod, wrapping his long fingers around Quatre's wrist.

The silence that dominated the atmosphere around the two boys was stifling, flooded only with the sound of pounding hearts racing in frightened anticipation of what they were about to attempt and what might possibly happen even as the shouts of their attackers and the scrape of boot on pavement roared deafeningly loudly from the exterior of their room. The television droned on as their minds counted the seconds that ticked by.

"When they open the door," Quatre whispered softly.

Trowa let his head bobble in a single nod of approval even as he tightened his grip on his partner's limb, trying to secure his hold even as the sweat that made his palm slick and Quatre's wrist slippery tried to hinder him. Gulping quietly, he watched with narrowed eyes, his focus entirely on the thin wooden barrier that resided between them and their attackers, between the cage their hotel room had suddenly become and the freedom of the outdoors.

The door shuddered violently. A few scant moments passed before it shuddered again.

The doorjamb splintered even as the door shuddered and cracked, bending under the force of the attack being waylaid against it. A shot rang through the atmosphere, quickly followed by another, the metal door latch buckling and denting into cylindrical shapes outlining the bullets being pumped into it. Another harsh shudder and thump, another spray of splinters, another sharp snap as the crack propagated along the door's surface.

Tightening his grip on Quatre's wrist even further, any regard for causing the other boy discomfort or bruising his flesh thrown to the wind, Trowa shifted his position. Rising off his belly and from his almost comfortable bed of Quatre's back, he balanced his lank form atop his toes and the fingertips of his free hand. Nervously digging his toes more firmly into the thinned carpet, he prepared to spring, the muscles in his body veritably twitching in nervous anticipation.

With a crash, the door flew open and slammed with horrid violence into the wall behind it, its knob smashing through the simple drywall before the entire assembly careened back towards the party that had finally succeeded in kicking it in.

Trowa burst off his toes, pushing as hard as he could against that carpet to gain as much speed as humanly possible with that initial step, wrenching the boy under him along for the ride. His stride continued despite the added resistance of Quatre being dragged a couple feet before he was able to get his feet under him and join him in the desperate race for that newly opened door.

They reached the broken wooden slab even as it was being pushed back open by the barrel of a gun.

With the fortunate advantage of surprise, Trowa and Quatre burst past their attackers who reeled away from the two fleeing bodies with grunts and shocked yells, the foremost man being knocked flat on his back by Trowa's frame and stepped on by Quatre's sneaker-clad feet.

Their advantage lasted only a few moments. Bullets filled the air.

A sharp turn and a wrench to Quatre's arm changed the direction of their flight. Trowa headed straight for the new white Mercedes S-230 they'd been granted use of.

Yanking the door open as swiftly as he could, thankful that he'd forgotten to lock the car's door the night before, he veritably threw Quatre into the vehicle's interior. As Quatre yelped and sprawled helplessly across the seats, Trowa grabbed his feet and pushed them into the passenger side of the small car even as he jumped into the driver's seat, pulled the car's keys out of the glove box, shoved them with nervous violence into the ignition and gave them a swift turn.

He offered silent thanks to whatever God was protecting them as the car's engine roared to life with the first turn of the keys.

The pitter-patter of bullets thudding against the car's solid sides flooded their ears, even as the windows held upright by the doors at their sides burst and shattered around them. Trowa quickly smashed himself as low into his seat as he could, folding his legs painfully under the steering wheel column even as Quatre slipped himself headfirst off the passenger seat, pressing his skull under the dashboard on the floor to get his lower body and legs into the seat and protected by the car's metal sides.

Reaching under the passenger seat with blindly groping fingers, the blonde quickly found the gun they'd remembered to transfer from one vehicle to the next when their demolished Mercedes E430W was reclaimed by the Benz dealership they'd rented from. Lifting it, Quatre squirmed a bit more, turning himself so his body was almost entirely in the scant space between the seat and the front of the car, wedged under the dashboard.

Lifting his head and the hand that held the Kahr Arms K9, he swiftly took aim. Trowa ducked as his hand gripped the automatic transmission's lever and threw it into reverse.

The gun discharged. Immediately a pained scream and the sound of an automatic repetitious-fire rifle being fired randomly into the air rang, swiftly followed by the distinct sound of the underpowered pistol being shot again and the thud of a body hitting the ground.

Trowa laid his foot flat on the accelerator. The tires of the car spun rapidly, squealing in protest against the lack of friction they held with the road. Gray smoke billowed around them as the scent of burning rubber flooded their nostrils.

Trowa locked his elbows to keep himself from careening forward even as the car finally made contact with the asphalt underneath it and burst into motion. Quatre was buried under the dashboard, sliding off the seat his elbows were propped on.

They both lunged forward as the car crashed violently into the vehicle that was parked behind them, shoving the other sedan over the curb its front tires were rested against and pushing it with unerring straightness into the hotel room before it. Their trunk buckled towards the heavens even as the distinct crash of a bumper falling off of a car and hitting the ground sounded and the back window shattered and fell away, leaving nothing but the plastic sheet that was the interior of the safety glass in its place. With a scream, Quatre shuddered in his hiding place, being smashed firmly into his location by the swiftly deployed airbag; a swift prayer of thanks to Allah whispered from his lips for the protective device's fortunate deploy not removing his head from his shoulders even as the bag deflated and Trowa pushed with unreserved hatred at the pillow that had blasted out of the steering wheel, attempting to get it out of his way. Trowa desperately reached for the transmission's controller, uncaring about the damage, unwilling to take the time necessary to evaluate the wreckage he'd just caused.

Pulling back into Overdrive, Trowa's foot smashed the gas pedal back against the floorboards again. The car lugged as it was flooded out with gas.

Quatre pushed the blanketing deflated airbag aside to lift himself and shot another shot, deadly accurate and swift, putting a bullet straight into the skull of one of their attackers. As he fell in a spray of blood, his gun clattering uselessly to the ground, the Mercedes burst free of its dilemma, finding its power again and roaring out of the parking lot.

Trowa lifted himself in his seat to be able to see out of the windshield after they'd flown over the curb that separated the parking lot of the hotel complex from the street that ran towards the lonely strip of desolate I-10 freeway, his emerald eyes narrowed to filter out the sun's harsh light and keep his focus on the road and keeping the car pointed straight on the pavement.

'God damn! That was close.'

Quatre cursed beside him, drawing his other hand to grip his gun-bearing hand's wrist, bracing his elbows firmly against the passenger seat's headrest, squinting his eyes harshly as he glowered through the small pistol's sites.

Glancing over at his partner, Trowa arched a brow then glanced into the side mirror. He resisted the urge to firmly slap his forehead and curse obscenities as he noticed that four of the vehicles that were in that parking lot when he'd run to the car were chasing them desperately.

The pinging of bullets slamming into their trunk filled the atmosphere, leaving the acrid scent of smoldering metal in the car for mere moments before it was whisked away by the wind that plowed through the vehicle's broken windows. Bullets slid past the barrier the buckled metal of the trunk provided, slamming into the dashboard and chewing chunks out of its intrinsically designed shell and breaking through the windshield.

"Keep it straight and speed up, will you?" Quatre shouted, carefully taking aim, refusing to break his stance, concentration or position even as the environ around him filled with bullets and danger.

"Hai," Trowa replied, pressing the accelerator as hard as he could and locking his arms, holding the wheel as steadily as he could.

The Kahr Arms fired once, then twice.

One of the cars that chased them, a white Toyota Celica, veered violently into the center divider, crashing through the sand and rocks that split the freeway into twin rivers of black asphalt designated to have their occupying vehicles move in opposing directions. Crossing the opposite string of lanes, it sank its nose firmly into the drainage ditch that was carved along the eastbound freeway lanes' right outboard edge. The car hitched and flipped end over end before finally coming to a rest on its roof, its passenger compartment flattened completely.

Quatre swiftly dropped back into his seat, glancing over at Trowa even as he tossed the gun to the floorboard and gripped his arm. "Lose them. I can't keep it steady enough to make the last two bullets really count."

Trowa turned his gaze for a moment to his partner, scowling as he noted the strong discoloration that lit Quatre's shoulder, realizing that during their wild escape attempt, whether it had occurred when he'd wrenched the slim blonde along or when he'd thrown his partner into the car or when Quatre had wormed about on the floor of the car that his stitches had ripped and his wound was bleeding profusely. 'Of course you can't. You tore your arm to pieces, didn't you?'

'Lose them.'

'Crap!'

Wrenching the wheel to his right, Trowa took their wounded Mercedes off the edge of the freeway. Gripping the steering wheel with desperate strength, he braced himself.

The car jumped as it careened into the drainage ditch that lined their westbound lanes, tilting startlingly sharply towards the passenger side.

Quatre let a startled, frightened yelp escape his lips as he hung on to the seat for dear life, staring with afraid eyes as the ground began to appear outside of his shattered door window.

Trowa scowled and turned the wheel.

When they landed, the car tilted so Trowa was elevated towards the heavens and Quatre was pressed towards the earth, they rolled.

Trowa snarled, fighting the wheel even as the ground scraped the roof over his head, then as his door scrunched against gravel and sand flew against him, kicked up by the car's motion. The mirror that was mounted to the door crunched loudly as it was crushed under the car's massive weight.

The car settled as their wheels hit the ground once more, tires still spinning as Trowa had never lifted his foot from the accelerator, wheels pointed towards Trowa's left to prevent a second rollover performance. The car swerved terribly as they flew into motion, turning in the soft sand.

The lank ex-pilot turned the wheel as swiftly as he could, pointing their car into the desert and racing towards the distant horizon where sky met earth, daring one glance at the rearview mirror.

He smiled in satisfaction as the freeway was screaming away, the cars that had been pursuing them having shot right past their location and scrambling to follow them.

As they put distance between themselves and their pursuit, Trowa eased them towards the groove in the desert he'd noted on his many drives along their remote freeway location. When he located it, he slid the car carefully down its steep side, taking them to the dried bottom of a forgotten, dead river.

Leaning back in his chair, he let a tired sigh escape his lips. "Lost them," he informed his partner.

Quatre nodded, grimacing as he gripped his shoulder, his eyes still bright with the excitement of having escaped with his life.

-- 23:59 --

Trowa and Quatre leaned against the car, looking mournfully at the windowless hotel room before them with its broken door and bullet-riddled interior. "We have all the guns?" Quatre asked softly.

"Aa."

"Anything else?"

"Iya. Can't fit anything else into the remains of the trunk if we take every gun here."

Quatre sighed and shook his head. "Can't be helped, then. We'll get supplies at a later date, when it's safe. Have anywhere in particular you want to hide?"

"Iya."

"I still have business in Los Angeles to completely," Quatre huffed. "Maybe we should head to that city. We can find another hotel."

"I was thinking we could start heading towards where Mr. Wa-"

"We're not going to interfere, Trowa."

Trowa blinked before turning a confused stare to Quatre. 'But I thought you were so concerned about him?' he pondered silently.

"I'm concerned about him, but the fact that he's garnered Duo's assistance has me at ease about his situation. He can handle things. And if he can't, then whoever else he's brought into this can help him."

"Whoever else he's brought?"

"Think about it, Trowa. If Duo's on this, don't you think he'd have contacted me? Or you? He's certainly found something by now. And he'd call anyway, whether or not he'd found anything, to tell me he's alright."

Trowa silently nodded, agreeing with Quatre's observations and encouraging him to continue.

"He hasn't. Meaning that Duo ran into something fairly big and might have gotten into trouble."

"Shit."

"I think that's what James was counting on."

"What?"

Quatre nodded once. "Think about it. They found us because you and I are both known constants to them. Your inclusion in my protection might have thrown my enemies for a short amount of time, but they've adapted. Xavier knows us, knows how we think, knows how we react. He can make adjustments."

"Continue, Quatre. About Duo."

"Oh, of course." Blinking once, Quatre bowed his head. "He also knows Duo and how he works."

"So Xavier won't have any problems with Duo being in this as well. He'll be able to work around him to get to you," Trowa surmised.

"Correct. But if Duo's in trouble, there's another piece that gets drawn into the game and placed on the board. An unpredictable one Xavier's never had to deal with."

Trowa let a small smile turn his lips and nodded. "Understood. You think he's in on this now?"

"I wouldn't doubt it. There's only two people in this Earth Sphere who could put that man into motion, and Relena Dorlain's in no danger at this time."

"So…."

"Apparently, Mr. Waverly thinks that you and he aren't enough to solve this problem."

Trowa mentally scowled. 'Of course. I'm the forgotten one who's only capability is being a bullet shield. He wouldn't rely on me to figure this out.'

'I wasn't able at all to figure out all that was going on last time.'

"I think you're enough."

Trowa blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "You do?" he quietly replied.

"Aa. We don't need anyone else involved in this, despite what James thinks." A few moments of silence passed before Quatre whispered, "Don't let anyone else come between us."

"I won't."

_tbc..._


	20. Chapter XIX

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

A/N: Ah yes, the infamous chapter 19. Contains lemony content. If this squigs you out, skim it. For those who've been awaiting this thing, enjoy!

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_I won't deny the pain  
I won't deny the change  
and should I fall from grace here with you  
will you leave me too?_

_Galapogos_

-- 21:51 --

Trowa sighed quietly, his voice weary and tired as he lugged the last of the heavy suitcases that had been tossed errantly into the back of the beaten white Mercedes he had driven to the night-riddled city of Los Angeles from the desert's depths. "That should be the last of them," he grunted, hefting the metal-sided case onto one of the twinned full-sized beds that occupied the spacious room.

"Thank you, Trowa. I'm sorry I couldn't help," Quatre's worn voice simpered from the nearby bathroom.

"Don't apologize. I understand."

Silence followed, penetrated by nothing but the hiss of hot water spraying from the silver showerhead that erupted from the tile wall of the shower stall.

Trowa took the opportunity to glance about their newest hotel room. 'Well, at least we're keeping it modest and not drawing attention to ourselves. I was afraid he'd be ordering one of those luxury suites under the Winner credit card.'

Indeed, they were in a Holiday Inn Express just outside of downtown Los Angeles. It was a simple room with nondescript blue-gray carpeting that was almost threadbare it was so thin. Two full sized beds, one dresser upon which sat a twenty inch television and a coffee pot with its prerequisite paper cups and coffee ground packages, a miniature refrigerator with a small microwave bolted to its top, a night stand situated between the paired beds with a telephone and an alarm clock seated atop of it, a simple small round table with a pair of overstuffed tan-colored chairs around it made up the major living space's conglomeration of furniture. A small closet was all that was provided for storage, a singular bar with three coat hangers within its confines, located in the small area between the sink and the carpeted living area in the tiled recesses of what almost might be considered the beginning of the bedroom. Through a door to the left as one faced the mirror with its three simple spherical sconce lights and the counter with its sink was the single toilet and its accompanying bath tub with its showerhead along with its normal faucet. A simple room for a reasonable price purchased using cash so their identities remained unknown.

Trowa sighed as he stared at the metal-sided case that rested upon the comforter-covered bed, taking in the stark contrast of steel against rose and beige swirled patterns. 'We still have to get that Mercedes replaced. And we're going to have to do some shopping. We didn't grab any clothing.'

He lifted his gaze and peered through his bangs as the bathroom door opened and his partner emerged, his head drooped and shoulders slack. "You alright?" Trowa instantly asked, arching one brow to belay his concern.

"Aa. Wound reopened, but I should be able to live with it," Quatre groaned softly, one thin and pale hand pressed to an equally thin and pale shoulder. Strolling tiredly to the bed the taller pilot was seated on, his bare feet silent on the carpeted floor, the blonde smoothed his boxers before sitting down. "I'll be fine. No reason for you to be concerned, Trowa."

Nodding once, Trowa leaned back to garner a better glimpse at the wound in question. "That's going to get infected if it keeps reopening."

"I washed it out well."

"I'm going out for supplies."

"No," Quatre instantly shot, his eyes fierce as he turned his gaze to meet Trowa's. "Stay put for the time being."

"…."

"We've got to ensure that the coast is clear," Quatre clarified as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and knitting his brow even as he laced his fingers together.

"And how are we to accomplish that? We can't go out and perform surveillance if we have nothing to work with, to live on, or to wear. We can't ensure the coast is clear if we don't have supplies to begin with. We need supplies now, Quatre. Not five days from now. We didn't grab any food, any medicinal supplies or any clothing."

"I'm aware of that. I've got a phone, though, and a few reliable allies in the area. They'll be fetching our supplies for us."

"Allies?"

Smiling faintly, Quatre nodded. "Abdul's going to kill me for using him as a courier, but he'll do as I ask. Though I hate having to utilize the Maguanac like this, they're the only recourse I've got."

Trowa blinked once, then twice. 'That's right. I'd forgotten that at least two of his personal army members are roaming around in this area.' "But aren't they a bit conspicuous?"

"Thinking our assailants will follow them to find us?"

Trowa nodded. "It would be a simple enough task," he added. "From what I've seen, respect them as I might, they're not the most subtle of people."

A giggle leaked past Quatre's lips as he shook his head. "I'd have to agree with that. However, there's no one else around."

"True."

"So, what're your dimensions?"

Trowa hung his head and chuckled softly. 'I can't believe him at times.'

After giving Quatre the information he required and watching as the boy hefted the phone's handle to his ear and deftly punched number after number on the keypad, Trowa lightly rested a hand upon the smaller boy's shoulder. He smiled as the boy relaxed under his touch.

'Despite all that just happened yesterday, he makes me so calm and relaxed. It's like nothing can possibly go wrong at this moment in time and nothing can interfere.'

'I think that's one of his most endearing traits. He had that during the war as well – time seemed to stand still when he was around.'

'And even now, I find myself more interested in touching him than in figuring out what's going on and how we were found. Typical.'

As Quatre quickly spoke in his native tongue, Trowa sighed and lightly began to kneed that flesh that was uninjured on his companion even as a frown took his lips.

'How DID they find us? And what truly IS going on?'

'I still haven't figured anything out. Only thing I know is that I'm here for you, Quatre. I'll protect you from everything, whether it's ambushers or yourself. I won't deny myself or you any longer, whether it brings about happiness or pain. I won't deny the changes in my feelings that have come to fruition, developing since we first met on the battlefield called 'Earth'. Because I love you, even as you confessed to loving me.'

-- 13:50, 186 Days Ago--

As Duo turned away to cover his weakness with a hanky and blow his nose, Quatre smiled. "We'd forgotten to tell him," he whispered.

"Oops."

Trowa felt Quatre's arms snake back around his waist one more time.

"You keep yourself safe, OK?"

Trowa nodded.

"I love you."

Trowa turned to face Quatre, his lips parting.

"All first-class passengers, please report to boarding gate 14. All first-class passengers, boarding gate 14, please," the announcer's loudspeaker squealed.

With a smile, Quatre lightly patted Trowa's shoulder. "Take care. Call me to let me know you've gotten home safely, neh?"

Trowa nodded, even as he was ushered towards the gate, checked in, and shoved by pale, thin hands through the boarding gate and towards the plane.

By the time he'd turned back to speak to the boy, he'd been swept up in the crowd and was now being herded up onto the escalator that would bring him to the plane.

-- 22:30 --

"And a dress shirt in gray. I hope it will work for you, Quatre-sama."

A light laugh erupted from the blonde seated on the edge of the bed closest to the hotel room's door. "I'm certain it will be fine. I really don't need everything custom tailored, despite popular belief."

"Anything else?"

Trowa leaned against the refrigerator, elbow rested atop the microwave that was whirring as it earnestly heated a container of Cup Noodles. Arching a brow, he kept his gaze firmly situated upon the tall Arab man with his sunglasses and his fez as he and Quatre calmly discoursed with one another. "How about Sandrock Gundam?"

Both Quatre and Abdul turned their gazes to Trowa, blue eyes stunned, brown eyes almost incredulous at being spoken to by someone other than one of his Corp or Quatre. Turning his eyes to Quatre, Abdul arched one brow over the rim of his dark glasses.

"It's alright. Trowa is allowed to know all that's going on so far as the Gundams are concerned. Him being Heavyarms' pilot, he has a right to critical information of that nature."

"Understood, Quatre-sama," Abdul replied before leaning against the wall beside the door and crossing his arms over his chest. "The Gundam has been moved to our stronghold in the Arabian desert."

"Which country?"

"Syria."

Quatre nodded calmly. "Anyone notice?"

"No, Quatre-sama. We take great pride in being able to move anything about or between our desert homes undetected by all. The Gundam was simply part of the entourage of desert survival equipment the Maguanac were moving for permanent storage as reliable backup supplies, as new upgrades to our current equipment have been released. Our allegiances ensure that news of the Gundam's relocation won't be spread."

"Excellent," Quatre sighed, his shoulders sagging in visible relief. "Be careful. If you remain in the area with the Gundam, whoever might be seeking it-"

"We've already relocated, Quatre-sama."

Trowa nodded once before opening the microwave door and pulling his piping hot soup from its confines. Setting it on the dresser and laying his chopsticks over its top to hold the paper lid firmly in place and allow the noodles within the Styrofoam cup to more effectively absorb the freshly heated water, the brunette asked, "So, any clue as to who was after the Gundam, and why?"

"We've been looking into that, Mr. Barton," the mercenary sighed, shaking his head. "We have few leads. The person who managed to break into our holding facility also managed to elude us when we set chase. Slippery bastard. All we've got is the surveillance videos."

"Do you have them?" Trowa interjected.

"Not on me. They're with Rashid."

Quatre scratched his chin, frowning lightly as he asked, "Do you remember anything remarkable about this person? Were you there?"

"Oh, I was there, Quatre-sama," Abdul replied pushing his sunglasses firmly along the bridge of his nose. "Very nondescript person. The broadness of his shoulders and the lack of hips and breasts clarified that it was male, but other than that there were no real distinguishing features. Not thin, not thick, not short, not tall. Brown hair that was straight and not that long, the beginnings of a beard that could either have been allowed to grow out or shaved by this time, not overly full eyebrows, brown rounded eyes. The average man in every respect. Only thing that struck me as odd was his polo shirt."

"What about it?" Quatre questioned, his eyes staring without blinking at his retainer.

"He had the initials 'CD' embroidered upon it. Almost looked like it was a uniform shirt, actually."

"'CD?'" Trowa reiterated, lifting his chopsticks from the top of his cup and pulling the cover of his dinner back.

"Yeah. A grease-stained red shirt with 'CD' on the breast pocket. That was the best image I can recall having seen before he ran from us and dove into the drainage system of the hanger bay."

"The intruder escaped through the drainage system? Those have grated covers," Quatre pressed.

"The grate to the particular drain he chose had been removed. We'd been clearing a blockage from that duct the night before and were considering going back in to make certain it was completely removed."

"Damn," Trowa muttered even as he scooped the first of many mouthfuls of noodles from the confines of his cup and slurped them down.

"That certainly isn't much to go on," Quatre grumped. "'CD' could be a company logo, a person's initials, a designer brand; it could be anything, really."

"Now you understand our dilemma?" Abdul said, arching a brow and letting a quirky smirk take his lips.

"I understand," Quatre agreed with a nod. "And I also understand that this person had to have been observing our location for quite some time. Whoever it was managed to enter without detection, and also knew that the grating to part of the hangar bay drainage system which serviced the location Sandrock was stored in was removed."

"We were infiltrated is what you're suggesting?"

"Yes," Quatre simply replied with a nod. "Did you have anyone other than the Maguanac around our mobile suits?"

"Only those contractors sent by the Earth Sphere United Nation to begin regulating demilitarization."

Quatre and Trowa looked to one another before returning their combined concerned gazes to the soldier that accompanied them. "Go on," Trowa continued after a moment of silence.

"We're required by the new government to register our suits and weaponry with them so accountability for everything can be kept. Professional contractors approved by the United Nation are supposed to disassemble all mobile suits and all weapons of mass destruction to maintain that accountability. Basically they're afraid that if we disassembled our suits ourselves, we'd keep everything of worth that could be remanufactured into something destructive."

"So outsiders are surveying your suits?" Trowa questioned after slurping down another mouthful of noodles.

"We don't have a choice other than to let them do so."

"Who are all of these contractors?" Quatre hissed, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Abdul arched a brow. "You suspect it could have been one of them? They're all working under the approval of the United Nation."

"That doesn't mean a thing," Trowa said with a nod. "I agree with Quatre. Whichever companies had representatives present at your base are suspect. Which were they?"

Bowing his head, the soldier frowned. "I don't know. As the Earth Sphere United Nation contracted them, we didn't have knowledge of their separate companies if they were from differing companies at all, and we had no access to that information. They were simply presented as ESUN contractors there to appraise our weapons and their capabilities for future demilitarization and disassembly."

"And Sandrock?"

"We never informed anyone that your Gundam was there, Quatre-sama," Abdul quickly shot, his eyes betraying feelings of hurt. "We would never utter a word of its existence to anyone. We know how important your suit is to you," he finished.

Bowing his head, Quatre sighed. "I didn't mean to question you, Abdul. I simply meant to ensure that it was unrevealed through all of this."

"As you're aware, it was being maintained in a separate hanger from the rest. I'd thought that the Gundam's hanger was undetectable, but the fact that we'd an intruder proved me wrong."

Nodding once, Quatre glanced over at Trowa. "Back to square one with that one, neh?"

"Aa," the taller pilot agreed as he fished a corn kernel out of his cup.

"Thank you for all of your assistance, Abdul. I'm forever in your debt," Quatre said with a smile and a slight bow from his seat upon the bed.

A bright grin turned the bespectacled Arab's lips before he bowed in return to the blonde businessman. "No reason to thank me, Quatre-sama. Just glad to be of service. And worry no more about your Gundam. On my life, it will be kept safe."

As Abdul turned to leave, Trowa nodded at the retreating man's back. "Excellent ally you've got there, Quatre."

"I know. I'm lucky to have their loyalty, even if it hinders my ability to act independently ever again in my life," the blonde quietly giggled. "They're a great bunch – just a little overprotective."

"Overprotective? You need it right now, Quatre."

"Phah."

Trowa smirked slightly, shaking his head. 'Just as you need me right now, though you won't admit it. You're not getting rid of any of us. No matter what, this fool you love somehow is here with you.'

-- 20:31, 69 Days Ago --

Trowa ventured one glance at the young blonde woman behind him after he'd pulled the last of the Zero System DIO cards from the massive control center he was in. 'Truly a sad person,' he silently sympathized. 'I was like that once. Hopeless and alone, without a home to return to.'

'But this woman is strong. She will fare well enough.'

Turning away from the computer structure he'd finished disassembling, he swiftly made his way to the smaller pilot who sat braced against a wall, hand over the conspicuously bleeding wound piercing his side.

'I've more important people to worry about,' Trowa mentally muttered to himself even as he kneeled and offered the wounded boy a hand. "Can you stand up, Quatre?"

"Trowa," the blonde wheezed, his voice weak and tired. "You've got to do me a favor."

Trowa let a frown touch his lips even as he reached for the boy. They needed to escape, and soon. Whatever favor Quatre wished of him could certainly wait.

"Look after her and forget about me."

Mentally, Trowa scowled. 'Forget about you? Quatre, you damned fool….'

Outwardly, he simply lifted his wounded companion's arm and looped it across his shoulders behind his neck, hefting him as gently as he could to his feet. "Don't worry, Quatre," he softly reassured, "she's strong enough to take care of herself."

"Yeah, I guess so," Quatre quietly agreed.

As he helped his partner to the doorway, he took a moment to glance back at the woman who'd so injured Quatre, who's mental fortitude had been broken even as the boy hanging upon his side's lung had been pierced. 'By all rights, I should hate her. Part of me does. Quatre is worth a thousand times more than she is; his ability to love unconditionally and completely demonstrates that worth.'

'He proclaimed so long ago that he loves me.'

'I can't let the one person who loves me despite the lie I live die.'

As Quatre wheezed at his side, Trowa turned completely to face Dorothy Catalonia, watching as she took the floating helmet that had linked her to the Zero-System controller for the Mobile Doll system in her shaking hands. 'Of course, Quatre would have sensed something kind and good within you, too. Otherwise he wouldn't have asked me to do something so ridiculous as to abandon him for you. It would upset him if you were to die now.'

"You'd better hurry. Don't get yourself killed."

'Don't upset him. You've already injured his body – don't injure his heart as well.'

'If you do, I'll never forgive you.'

As he lead Quatre away from the room that had housed their dramatic encounter, Trowa turned his concerned gaze to the blonde's side. "You certain you'll be alright?" he ventured.

"Aa," Quatre's quiet voice muttered. "You didn't do as I asked. I know she's strong, but if she can't find that strength in time to escape, she'll die with this space station."

"I'm not here for her, Quatre."

Quatre blinked, staring at the taller pilot.

"I'm here for you."

-- 14:23, 186 Days Ago--

Trowa blinked as the plane began to roll away, taking his view of the blonde boy away from his eyes.

Blinking once more, Trowa felt an odd sensation upon his cheek.

Lifting a finger, he touched it then stared at his fingertip.

It glistened with wetness in the dim cabin lights.

Sighing, he wiped his eyes before returning his gaze to the outside world.

'You told me so many times, Quatre…'

'And I couldn't tell you.'

'I couldn't tell you that I love you.'

'Not even once…'

-- 22:52 --

'I swear to you. That's a mistake I never intend to make again. I will tell you, Quatre.'

'This time, I've shown you how I feel. I promise I'll tell you.'

"Something on your mind, Trowa?"

Startled clear out of his thought, Trowa blinked once before uttering, "No."

His mind wasn't on his words. It was on recollections from days past as his eyes remained focused on soft pink lips that smirked playfully at him.

-- 09:41, 4 Days Ago --

Rubbing his forehead, he leaned back, returning his focus to the television, trying to lose himself into the less perplexingly intrinsic complexities of the game that played on. 'I wish I had a few answers. I wish I knew what was going on.'

'I wish I could truly help you.'

The phone clicked onto its base behind him. Without turning Trowa asked, "They're going to get your phone?"

"Yeah," Quatre said quietly, crawling along the bed to sit beside him once again. Turning his gaze to Trowa's face he frowned slightly, his gesture washing his face in a blanket of concern. "I know nothing either. Please, stop troubling your mind about this. If we sit on our brains all day and simply try to figure all of this out without actively seeking information, we're going to be running in circles and coming up with naught but the conclusions we've already reached."

Arching a brow, Trowa glanced over. "How did you know…?"

A calm shrug moved Quatre's shoulders. "I just do. Now please, do relax. There's nothing we can do at this moment than play into their hands and see what move they'll make next."

Trowa narrowed his eyes.

"After all, even in the most perfectly played of games there must be sacrifices if one's to see what their opponent's strategizing."

As the boy's quietly spoken words registered in the emerald-eyed boy's mind, Trowa felt his lips turn with another frown. 'And just who is that sacrifice supposed to be, Quatre? Me?'

'Or is it you?'

'That won't be allowed. Not so long as I am here. Not so long as you're in my care.'

"Can't always be safe in this life, Trowa," Quatre softly said, closing his brilliant blue eyes. "After all, it's only for a sacrifice of pain and the betrayal of our deepest desires that we get a piece of the game. And only once we sacrifice ourselves can we ever hope to escape this board and fly from this horrible plot that envelops us all…."

Trowa snarled.

And, unable to take Quatre's soft proclamations that he would indeed be the sacrifice offered to those who hunted him for the simple prize of information and resolution, he did the only thing he could think to do to silence him.

The blonde froze, eyes wide, as Trowa took his lips with his own.

Many a long minute passed before they finally separated and Trowa brought himself to look into the smaller boy's eyes.

-- 22:54 --

Caught up in memories of the past, Trowa seated himself next to the blonde, tossing his emptied dinner cup into the nearby trashcan. Moments later, he rested his hand on Quatre's shoulder.

"Something is definitely on your mind," the blonde whispered, turning to face the brunette.

"…."

"Something you care to share?"

Bowing his head, Trowa sighed. 'I can't begin. Christ.'

He blinked rapidly.

Soft lips were pressed to his, engaging him in a light, yielding kiss.

Closing his eyes, Trowa breathed in that kiss, taking in the air passed into his waiting mouth by the blonde he cherished, hungrily pressing back into that gesture with eager desire even as his arms wrapped around his partner's thin frame. As pale arms encircled him in turn, Trowa pulled Quatre close, nearly easing the boy into his lap.

As they separated, Trowa gasping softly for breath, he stared at the blonde.

"I love you," Quatre whispered before returning his lips to Trowa's, lightly sealing his words with a press of mouth upon mouth.

Trowa licked lightly as those lips as Quatre pulled them away. Tightening his grip around the blonde, taking care as to not aggravate his wound, he pressed his cheek to Quatre's and let his sigh trace his warm breath along his partner's pale neck.

"I love you too."

"I want you."

Trowa nodded, his bangs brushing against Quatre's ear. "Take me."

-- 23:40 --

Trowa sighed happily, holding the blonde that he cradled in his arms with almost ridiculous care. Burying his chin in soft golden locks, he let a slight smile touch his lips.

He was quite sore.

But then again, Trowa had never been in a situation like that before. It was something he was entirely unfamiliar with.

It was a situation he would be glad to find himself in once again.

-- 22:57 --

Trowa lifted his arms obediently, letting Quatre lift his shirt away from his body. He shivered slightly as the warm fabric was stripped away, leaving his tanned flesh to be touched by the wispy chill fingers of the air breathed by the air vents situated throughout the hotel room. Moments later his thighs and calves were assaulted by that same touch as his pants were eased away, him worming away from the encasing fabric to assist his partner in his task of removing them. Next his socks hit the floor, leaving him in nothing but his war-beaten wristwatch and his boxers.

Fingers fumbling embarrassingly, the brunette tried to make quick work of the button and zipper that held Quatre's black slacks in place on his body. A soft laugh met his ears as slender pale fingers encased Trowa's broad hands, holding them steady. "Calm down. Patience is a virtue, you know."

Trowa took a deep breath, lifting his gaze and staring at the blonde's smiling eyes. 'Calm down? I'm this close to living my fantasy and you tell me to calm down?'

"Yes, I'm telling you to calm down," Quatre hotly breathed even as he lifted one of Trowa's hands to lightly kiss its back while unzipping his pants with the other. Gripping his partner's fingers, he slipped them easily into the gaping front of his slacks, a quiet moan of pleasure taking his lips. "Be calm and take pleasure in what you're doing."

"Aa," Trowa breathed softly, his eyes slowly closing as his hand caressed the warm front of silk boxers even as the fabric that encased them was shed by the blonde's free hand. As kiss after kiss laid itself upon the back of his left hand, he leaned forward, pressing his right more desperately into that warmth.

Quatre sucked lightly on his index finger, gently biting at its tip.

A hiss of breath escaped Trowa's lips as his eyes flew open, staring at the blonde. That slight nibble, that tiny suggestive action, had already hardened him.

Laughing quietly, Quatre slid Trowa's hand away from his crotch and laid the taller pilot's fingers upon the front of his own boxers. "Keep yourself occupied for a little while, will you?" he whispered, his voice hot and sultry, as he sauntered towards the bathroom, stopping at the refrigerator to grab something out of its depths first.

Trowa's boxers hit the floor in record time, and his hand swiftly hastened itself in getting to work.

'He managed to get me that excited with one simple gesture? God….'

Minutes later, Quatre returned, the bottle he'd snatched from the fridge in his hand and slicked with hot water from the shower. "So excited already, Trowa?" he playfully quipped as he shuffled back to the bed, sliding easily beside the boy and laying his hands upon the taller adolescent's shoulders.

Trowa groaned in pleasure as Quatre's lips met his again, leaning into that touch, trying to absorb more of his partner into himself with that contact. His hands hastily left his own excitement to grip his companion's waist, pulling him close, attempting to press their bodies completely together.

He didn't fight as those soft, surprisingly strong hands upon his shoulders pushed him back onto the bed.

Arms completely encircling the frame that nestled atop him, Trowa moaned into their continued kiss, lifting his hips slightly, pressing his excitement against the smaller boy's frame, belaying his urgency.

Quatre responded by breaking their kiss and slithering down his frame through the tunnel his arms created. Soft lips parted, letting a warm, wet tongue slip lightly down Trowa's hot skin, tasting a long trail down his chin, his neck, his chest. Platinum bangs brushing against hard pectoral muscles, Quatre tilted his head and neck to set his tongue to the task of licking a brown nipple, hushed puffs of breath teasing it with every pass even as his muscular organ tickled it erect. Once finished, the blonde turned his attention to the other, slithering atop his taller partner to reach his destination, and gently pinched it between his teeth, eliciting a hiss of pleasure and a squinting of emerald green eyes from his impromptu mattress.

Opening his eyes, Trowa stared as the blonde trailed kisses down his chest to his stomach, heading for that achingly engorged part of him that lusted for attention, his silky bangs leaving singing trails of tingling pleasure burning along his front as they swept through the wet trail left by lips and tongue.

Trowa cried out in pleasure as paired fingers tasked themselves to kneed his nipples, pulling and rubbing those darkened nubs into hardened points even as soft lips parted and surrounded just the head of his erection, the wet tongue held in the heated mouth behind those lips lightly prodding the rounded rod's hole. His hips rose, attempting to sink his length into that warm cavern, brushing against the back of his partner's throat, scraping along his perfect white teeth.

Quatre easily met his enthusiasm, taking one deep breath through his nostrils before sinking down along Trowa's length, easing it into his throat.

Lifting his shaking hands, Trowa sank his fingers into soft golden locks, trying desperately to hold onto that which felt too incredible to be real, that which was his ultimate fantasy. He hardly noticed as delicate fingers left his nipples, as warm palms slithered along his sides and rubbed his warm flesh. All that existed was Quatre's touch, Quatre's scent, Quatre's heat, Quatre's wet mouth surrounding his phallus, Quatre's tight throat gulping down his aching head as if trying to completely swallow the thick member.

His voice hitched as one hand slid under a pale chin to nuzzle his heavy testes, pressing lightly against his hot scrotum and tenderly rolling the contents of that pouch within their flesh pocket and against one another. One thin finger lightly pressed into the delicate flesh between his opening and his sack even as the rest of the hand tightened its hold. Gripping the hair in his grasp as tightly as he could, he verily screamed in ecstasy as he came.

Head falling back onto his pillow, Trowa stared blearily at the ceiling even as the blonde's throat worked mightily around the head of his manhood, sweeping his seed away forever. "God…" he softly whispered, his fingers becoming lax in their grip.

Quatre smiled faintly as he pulled away. "Hardly."

Trowa moaned again as the finger of the hand upon his testes that had prodded near his opening slowly slid its tip into his body.

It wasn't the first time he'd experienced this. It was simply the first time someone other than himself had invaded him.

Relaxing as well as he could, he let his eyes close once more even as he curled his fingers into his sheets while the blonde sank his digit into his hot recess.

"Turn over," Quatre's voice softly urged as he pulled his finger away.

Trowa immediately complied, his movements slow and tired but enthusiastic nonetheless.

Hitching himself onto his knees, hugging his pillow in his arms, Trowa spread his legs and sighed into his feathery cushion. 'This is what I've been wanting. What I've been lusting for since I first saw him in that bed….'

-- 23:21, 194 Days Ago --

Trowa listened with a satisfied smile as the doorknob clicked its confirmation that he had indeed succeeded in undoing the locking mechanism inside.

Carefully turning the knob, he slowly opened the door, keeping his moves precise and snail-paced to prevent the door from squeaking or creaking. Slipping in, he carefully shut it behind him, letting it fall back into place without a single click.

After entering the room, Trowa quickly slid against the wall, making his way into the open closet, ducking amongst the clothing to watch what was happening from the safety of obscurity.

His eyes nearly burned with rage as he watched the writhing mass under the blankets.

Suddenly, a dark-haired head burst free of the covers, gasping loudly as if for air before turning its steely gaze back upon whatever was below it. The head began to duck back down, lips pursed to deliver a kiss.

That kiss was never delivered.

Trowa lowered his SIG P229 Sport, his narrowed eyes shining with smug satisfaction as the larger form that carried the head he'd just shot with his .357 slug fell back onto the bed with a heavy thud, blood spraying from the perfect shot that ruptured the artery that fed the brain and soaking the pillows and covers that surrounded it.

Marching out of the closet, he approached the bed. Gripping the covers, he whipped them back and peered.

There was a small pale-skinned body lying below the other man.

That was completely nude.

-- 23:19 --

'I've been wanting this ever since I first saw that. I was so jealous….'

'I was wishing it was me instead of that bastard.'

Trowa groaned as the oily contents of the bottle the blonde had warmed in the shower's water were spread lightly around his entrance, his excitement rising as he tightened his grip on his pillow. "Quatre…."

"What?" Quatre quietly whispered as he eased the oiled tip of a finger back into the taller pilot, lubricating his innards for the next act in their first encounter.

"Please…" Trowa grunted.

"Hai," Quatre compliantly breathed.

The pillow barely muffled Trowa's cry as he was penetrated, Quatre's engorged manhood, dripping with the same oils that had been used to coat the brunette's inner recesses, plowing easily through the passage made slick by vegetable oil and patient play that encouraged relaxation and trust. Hips rocking back to meet the plummet of his partner, sinking his teeth into his pillow, the world bursting with color through his closed eyelids, Trowa's breath slid harshly from his nostrils and between his teeth with each grunted push.

Quatre gasped as he pushed into his partner, his own excitement betrayed by the pleasured moans that erupted from his thin throat. Sinking his fingers into the taller boy's waist, he pulled harshly at his pelvis, sinking himself completely into his companion with every stroke.

Riding their wave of pleasure, care for the intrinsic plots of the world and the dangers of the outdoors thrown to the wind, they cried in combined pleasure and love as they fell from grace in that dingy hotel room, as that moment changed their perspectives towards one another forever.

_tbc..._


	21. Chapter XX

Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I'm simply an E5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

Additional Note: Roughly 5 years, 3 months and 18 days is equal to 1934 days. I'm trying to keep the format constant, so it ended up in a huge number of days rather than the easier to read year/month/day styling. And yes, I did take one leap year into account. Deal. :P

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Let me know the way from of this world of hate in you  
cause the dye is cast, and the bitch is back  
and we're all dead yeah we're all dead  
inside the future of a shattered past_

_Tales Of A Scorched Earth_

-- 07:42 --

Hazel eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, watching as the flitting touches of sunlight that peeked past the gauzy white drapes with their spongy painted leaves of green and brown skittered merrily across the smooth white expanse that encompassed his field of vision.

It had been three days since he'd first opened his eyes to this now overly familiar sight. Thirteen days, by his best approximation, since the woman who was his current capturer had slammed her tire iron across the back of his skull and stolen his consciousness and ability to fight her grip away.

'Guess she got sick of moving me around,' he ruefully thought, his long lips twisting with a sneer.

Indeed, since he'd fully revealed that he knew nothing of relevance to her or her compatriots, he'd had a much easier time. He was actually receiving water on a daily basis and his mornings consisted of being spooned a thick, tasty porridge. The serrated edges of kitchen knives, the leather of whips, the burning wetness of liquid concoctions designed to torment and torture those persons to which it was administered hadn't touched his flesh since that last session as well.

James Waverly blinked, letting the view of the plain white ceiling be stolen from his sight for a moment of time to rewet his eyes. 'Pity all of this effort is being exhausted because I was so close to death that threats had become entirely ineffective. Trying to nurse me back to health so they can use those involved in my life against me to pry what I know away, refusing to believe that I truly know nothing. Silly wench.'

As he studied the plain white expanse above, he let a grumbled curse come to his dried, cracked lips. 'And there's been no sign of the kid. Everything I've sent searching for his signature has returned with apologies and sorrow.'

'Can be construed as either good or bad, I suppose. He's either been moved, or he's been killed.'

'God, if you'd consider listening to one hell of a sinner, please hear me out on this one. Let that fucking Barton brat have the common sense to drag the kid out of danger's line. If he doesn't, Quatre's just going to sit and let what's coming come down on his blonde head just so he can figure out what's going on with his dying breath by gleaning it off the minds of his murderers.'

'I don't want to live in an Earth Sphere like the one that'll arise if he dies now.'

'I might have before – not anymore.'

The door creaked against its hinges as it was slowly swung open. Soft footsteps padded into the room, slippers scraping across the hardwood floor as they made their transition from soft hallway carpeting.

'Lyssa. And she's not alone. Heh.'

Split lips turning with a vague smile, James let a faint chuckle leak from his worn throat. "Never thought you'd grow the balls to come down yourself, old friend."

Those soft footsteps stopped even as the hazel-eyed prisoner tilted his head towards the door to get a view of what was entering.

Lyssa looked truly stunned, her chocolate eyes wide and her hand caught in the midst of its action of tossing her short brown ponytail back over her shoulder where it belonged. Lips faintly touched with light pink lip-gloss parted to reveal pearly white teeth that were agape in shock as well, accompanied by a pale face and lightly shadowed eyes. White slippers dug against the hardwood floorboards for a nervous instant, the slight motion of the leg within the blue jeans that encased them causing that fabric to shake itself smooth of the slight wrinkles that still clung in its folds.

A slender hand settled upon her white t-shirt clad shoulder, giving it a light squeeze that wrinkled the article's surface. "Don't be so shocked," a chipper voice chirped out to her from thin, smiling lips. "I told you what he is. You don't think he'd be able to sense me and recognize me from a mile away?"

"O-of course," Lyssa replied with a small nod. Taking a step back, she shook her head. "It still makes me uneasy, though."

"As it rightly should," her partner chuckled as he stepped around her and crossed his lean, muscled arms before his black t-shirt clad chest, obscuring the message upon it that read 'Your village called. Their idiot is missing.' "After all, not every day one gets to deal with a subject like this one."

"Neh, would'ja mind not talkin' 'bout me as if I weren't in the room, prick-ass?" James snorted, hazel eyes narrowing as his lips turned from their vague smile of recognition into something more predatory, more fierce.

"Oh, of course, old friend! Very sorry about that," Xavier chuckled as he approached the rack that dominated the room's center. "So what was that you said earlier?"

"That I can't believe you grew balls," James snickered. "Look at you. Prime and proper and ever so smug as you hover over me. Thinking your top of the world right now?"

"You tell me," Xavier said with a smile.

"Fuck off," the hazel-eyed prisoner cajoled with a smirk. "So, why exactly are you here? Something's telling me that it's not to entertain me with your presence."

"Just as sharp as ever," the other man replied with a nod.

"Well?"

Lyssa stepped forward. "He's going to question you. You won't tell me anything, so I figured –"

"You figured that someone with whom I'm familiar might be able to talk his way around my barriers and defenses and give you something of relevance so you can find the kid and start your new revolution, hm?"

She stared before frowning, her teeth lightly biting at her lower lip.

"Ain't gonna work, sweetheart."

Xavier arched a brow. "And why do you suppose it won't?"

James levied his stare at his old working partner, his eyes fiercely determined and his lips set in their strained smirk, teeth gritted to the point of grinding. "Because, 'old friend.' There's still an entire world of bitter emotions standing between us that'll keep me from ever telling anything you may want to know."

Xavier arched a brow, his jester's grin falling for a moment.

His smile firmly in place, his brow knitting into a glower, James softly hissed, "I still hate you."

-- 16:29, 15 Days Ago --

'I certainly hope you're resting in peace, Theresa. That you're not rolling over in your grave, knowing that I'm still doing this.'

Rising to his feet, he sighed quietly.

'I hope you're not pissed with the fact that I'm carrying on with the plan that killed you.'

"Never imagined you'd bring your sorry ass back here."

James' shoulders instantly tensed as the breath he'd drawn but moments earlier froze in his lungs, refusing to ease from his body. His eyes slowly narrowed of their own accord, their hazel coloration dark and displeased as his lips curled into a sneer, revealing tightly clenched teeth. "Xavier," he acknowledged, his words substituting fully for the nod of the head that normally would have accompanied his greeting, "what the hell. Didn't think you visited graveyards."

"Same could be said of you, old friend," the lank man said with a chipper smile gracing his angular face. Walking towards the grave's visitor, his hands stuffed in his acid-washed jeans' pockets, he nodded his greetings. Coming to stand next to James, he pulled his hands free of his pockets and quickly tucked in his loose, unmarked white t-shirt. Lifting one hand and brushing its fingers quickly through his shortly cropped russet hair, he glanced over with innocent chocolate-brown eyes and chuckled. "Didn't think you were one to reminisce on the past."

"Always have been. I pay homage to those who've died because of what I've done."

"That's surprisingly sweet of you, James," Xavier cooed.

"You, though. I didn't think you were one to come slinking around the graves of those you've murdered."

-- 19:41, 1934 Days Ago --

The black Focus eased into its parking spot on the driveway beside the large beige Jeep Grand Cherokee. Headlights dying, the interior light was activated as the vehicle's occupant gripped the door handle and pulled it, unlatching the barrier that stood between him and the outside world and letting it be opened.

A long, low sigh of exhaustion escaped thin lips that turned with a slight frown. Eyes closed, head hung so long bangs swept over his face, the man within the car took a few moments to collect himself. It had been a horribly long day.

He'd been visited at work by a rather unsavory partner of his that he'd prayed he'd given the slip to months ago, his office door having been opened during lunch to shock him with the vision of Chad Lesley.

The conversation between him and Chad, who had arrived in a brown suit with a white shirt and silk tie that eerily matched his suit and shoes for that matter to utter perfection, hadn't been the most pleasant one they'd ever participated in.

Chad had wanted to know why he'd abandoned the organization. He'd refused to accept the answer of having found better pay and more opportunity for advancement elsewhere.

An hour of staring one another down had left the stalwart man in his brown suit perspiring along the creases in his forehead and along his jowls while he ran his thick hands profusely through his short, professionally styled brown hair. Moustache-bearing lips frowned with disappointment as the answers he wanted were not provided.

Chad had hinted that he was needed by the organization. James had made it clear that he had no intention of returning. And when Chad had pushed, informing him that it would indeed be in his best interests to return to Mr. Kesslinger at his earliest convenience, James had called security to have him escorted out.

James pressed his forehead against the steering wheel of his vehicle.

It hadn't taken his compatriots more than four months to find him.

"Damn it all," he snorted to himself. "This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. How could they have seen through it? I have death certificates and everything, for crying out loud."

Four months earlier, he'd made his escape from the training facilities of the Specials. He'd orchestrated his death, the disappearance of all of his material, and the apartment fire that had destroyed every loose end he could think of. Even his most precious guns, including the one he'd assassinated his first victim with, had perished in that outrageously hellish fire. His squad had been decimated when they'd left to fight rebellion forces that threatened the nearby Kenya Alliance Outpost. He'd 'perished' with them, his last radio transmission being one of dismay asking that the remainder of his troops fall back and leave him to finish things 'with style.' His suit had self-destructed in a fiery blossom of glory, spreading its burning arms in triumph as it praised the heavens for granting victory over its enemies. He left the battlefield, walking over body of friend and foe like, making his way back to the dwelling he shared with the woman he had given his heart to. Together they'd packed and abandoned Africa, fleeing to the United States, to the state of California, where he'd taken up working in the southern region's only nuclear power plant within a hundred miles of his home and she'd discovered work in her field of legal sciences as a legal secretary for a local law firm.

They'd lived their lives of peace and quiet, far from the increasing problematic Alliance's view or concern. James had been hoping it could continue that way.

Once, he'd followed Romefeller. Once, he's adhered strictly to the plans of its most powerful and influential individuals, seeing the prospects and promises held in those plots. Once, he'd sacrificed his humanity, his soul, to see its agendas come to light. He'd murdered without discrimination, stealing life with bullet and knife, with rope and bare hand if necessary. He'd thrown his ethics and morals away with hopes to make those plans he'd been presented with a reality, with hopes to make a difference in the world even as the man who had changed the course of history with a single bullet placed expertly through the heart of the pacifist colony leader who was leading space to unity had done when James himself was but a four-year-old child.

He'd particularly agreed with the plan of Douglas Kesslinger, the quiet voice behind Duke Dermail's most devastatingly successful maneuvers and compatriot of Colonel Tsuberov, who was involved in the development of a fully automated mobile suit control system that would make living pilots a thing of the past.

The plan to utilize Romefeller funding, the very lifeblood of the Earth Sphere, to bolster and build the colonies while militarizing the nations of Earth; indeed, to give the colonies the ability to be equal to Earth in all respects and encourage a perfect stalemate of power to hold peace in place lest Sphere-destroying war be unleashed, was a plan he could see the prospects for.

He didn't agree in the peace-bearing vision that would encourage Romefeller prosperity, though.

What James had desired was the war. The war to end wars, the war to demolish humanity.

The war that would cleanse the Earth of primitive Homo Sapiens, leaving the Sphere open and free for the more peaceful minded Newtype, leaving the Newtype with a world in which they would have no fear of being persecuted. Leaving a world in which they were not the oddities, but rather the mainstream, not science gone awry but truly the next step in human evolution, taking their place as supreme beings without fear of retaliation against which they would have no defense. A world in which the experiments and torments of the past would never again occur, where curious humans doubting the validity of human evolution would not have the ability to capture and test on living subjects, where innocent youths wouldn't have to undergo horrific experiences for the benefit of scientific exploration and investigation.

But the times of those longings were far over and long gone. He blamed his interactions with Earth-based humans over the last couple years for tainting his hatred of their kind and destroying his fidelity to Douglas Kesslinger's dreams, for demolishing his own ambition for twisting those plans into his own formula and seeing even the Plan's almighty creator cremated by it.

He was no fool – he never longed for there to be naught but peace, as he knew that war was to come. He was a child of the colonies. He knew the unrest, the anger, the respite that rested in the stars above. He knew the rebellion that was forming, and indeed had been doing what he could to harbor it and strengthen its resolve, seeing it as the means to fulfill the prerequisites for the Plan of Kesslinger to be thrown into action.

James just no longer wanted a part of it. He would let humanity ride out its chaotic wave of evolution and revolution on its own, finding contentment in his own life. He didn't care about Romefeller, the colonial rebellion, the Alliance, or anything else. He'd purposefully chosen a location which was relatively unimportant in the view of those organizations which would soon be making the Earth a battlefield, which stood a fair chance of remaining untouched and undisturbed while Death road his gundanium and titanium horses over the landscape.

He'd found peace and love with the woman he'd fled with. He no longer needed a revolution or genocidal cleansing of the Earth to find a place where he could live without persecution or fear.

His service to Douglas Kesslinger had been finished, his last job with the Specials a raving success that had produced soldiers of the finest caliber ever seen. His service to the rebellion had been completed, the strengths and weaknesses of those soldiers dutifully reported in full detail. His services with Xavier Johnson had been terminated, the last target they were to hunt together having been brought down days before he'd gone on his fateful mobile suit mission. His tasks with Chad Lesley had been closed out, the Alliance system they were to infiltrate raided for all pertinent information, that information forwarded to Romefeller networks, and that original system demolished beyond repair. Everything he'd needed to complete had been completed. His old life was over and done.

Lifting his head from his steering wheel, he unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out of the vehicle. His feet carried him without energy or vigor to the front door as he flipped through the keys on his overloaded ring, trying to locate the one for the front door.

Gripping the doorknob as he finally located the right key, he stooped to shove the metal length into its corresponding hole.

His eyes sprang fully open as the knob turned freely under his fingers.

'Maybe she forgot to lock the door. Damn it, Theresa, how many times have I warned you about leaving this thing unlocked? Do you really want our house to be broken into?' he mentally snarled as he walked in.

His silent admonishment of the woman he lived with came to a screeching halt as the delicate scent of copper met his nostrils.

'Blood…?'

Breaking into a run, James tore up the stairs as quickly as he could take them, following his adrenaline-heightened senses to the source of that odor.

He stared as he pushed their bedroom door open.

"Theresa…."

The bloodied mass on the ground didn't answer.

Stepping gingerly into the room, experience leading him to move with dancer's grace around the pools of still wet red that stained the light blue carpeting, he walked to her side and knelt. Hazel eyes narrowed critically for one moment before closing completely, letting the tears that formed along the glassed sheen of those orbs be pushed onto dark eyelashes and finally spill onto sun-darkened cheeks.

The gaping hole in the center of her forehead refused to vanish, no matter how fervently he wished it to do so.

Rising from his stance, his hands curled into fists, he glared at the body at his feet. Seconds later, the flashing red indicator of their answering machine caught his attention.

With an angered snarl, he punched the button almost hard enough to push it completely through the machine that housed it. It dutifully played its message.

"Hey, old friend. Sorry about the mess, but you refused us. Chad relayed your answer to me. So if you don't want anything else to occur, I'd suggest meeting up with me tomorrow at that merry casino that overlooks the nearest Indian reservation to your quaint little home. You know the one – it's in that town who's name is something along the lines of San Mateo and is really naught but a jump down the freeway from that Palm Springs place. Hope to see you there around noon, James!"

As the machine informed him that he'd reached the end of his new messages, James let his head hang loosely. Minutes later, he began the tedious task of packing all that he desired to remove from the house into his suitcases, preparing to once again leave his life behind, to sacrifice what bare hints of his soul that had been returned to him to his compatriots, their organization, their plans.

After throwing his suitcases into his Focus, two filled with clothing and the necessities of survival and one with those guns he owned that were unregistered and not known to exist, he gathered those which were listed under his name in police records on the kitchen counter, handling them with kitchen towels to keep his fingerprints from getting slathered across their surfaces. Picking up the phone, he sighed as he dialed 911.

A few moments passed after the connection to emergency dispatch had been made before he could find his voice and force it past the lump that filled his throat. "My girlfriend's been murdered," he simply stated into the handset.

After finishing his brief conversation with the police, having given them a brief synopsis of his alibi and his address, he set the phone down on the cradle and eased himself down onto the floor, using the wall behind him to support his frame. Lifting his hand to his face, he rubbed lightly at the corners of his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He steadfastly refused to let his emotions get the better of him – the last time he'd sobbed was when he'd lost his mother, the same year Heero Yuy had been eliminated, the year he'd been introduced to the curiosity of the Alliance-funded scientific community by those who were appointed by the loose government of the run-down, chaos-torn L2 Colony A42C to foster him in his youth.

Shoulders shaking without control, James Waverly took a deep, steadying breath, silently berating himself for losing control of himself, ridiculing himself for letting a simple life's loss crumble his resolve and fortitude. Lips scowled even as he sniffed and tasted salt upon his lips when he realized that, for the first time in twenty-four years, he was crying.

-- 16:46, 15 Days Ago --

Walking past the perfectly still man, Xavier let his eyes narrow, his friendly smile fading once more into a predatory slit of a sneer. "Still, it was such a loss. She was a great woman. Would be a pity if it had to happen again."

Fist clenching tightly at his sides, James' lips turned towards a scowl as his hazel eyes closed.

"Best be careful with your actions, James. Remember; failure won't result in the end of your life alone."

As Xavier wandered out of the graveyard, his white t-shirt and jeans clad body fading into the distance, James let his eyes open once more.

The wet blood droplets that pooled on his knuckles, oozing from his palms, raced towards the ground to splash into the steadily growing puddle that had over the course of the conversation formed at his feet.

-- 07:54 --

Xavier arched a brow. "You still hate me, eh? And why, dear friend?"

"You know why," James huffed, closing his eyes and turning his face so when his eyes reopened he would be viewing the ceiling once again rather than the cheerful visage of his old working partner.

A bright laugh rang from beside his makeshift rack. "Still! My goodness. So you lied your ass off to me when you said that her death was water under the bridge?"

James refused to dignify Xavier's question with an answer. Instead, he snorted and glowered at the man, quietly grumbling, "So, will you tell me exactly what you're up to?"

"Not until you tell me what I want to know, old friend."

James smirked wryly. "No can do. I don't know."

Lyssa shook her head, lightly touching Xavier's shoulder. "This is what he's been saying the entire time. Looks like your presence isn't having any effect."

Xavier nodded. "Obviously. I'll tell you why."

Both persons stared at him, hazel eyes glowering, brown eyes curious.

"He truly doesn't know."

-- 10:00 --

Lyssa sighed as she leaned forward, resting her elbows upon the grainy wood that made up the rack she was seated beside. Curling her toes behind the wheels of her worn student chair to keep it beside the makeshift torture platform, she laced her fingers together and set her chin onto the handily created platform her hands made. Soft brown eyes stared down at the man who was stretched before her, his face stony as his hazel eyes stared without emotion at the ceiling above him.

She'd just sat through nearly two hours of plot revelations, motive explanations, and eye-opening confirmation of what the world was truly like both upon the planet and in the stars. Her stoic faith in her organization had been both strengthened and shaken, the evils of those who had fallen in the past and those who still existed in the shadows of the modern day revealed and rebutted, the righteousness of those with who she allied herself to fight those forces that were currently in places of power and influence both verified and undermined.

She was confused and miserably shaken in her fortitude. The fact that she and her organization had been so thoroughly duped and that it was far too late for her to be able to warn everyone of the horrors that awaited them thanks to their leader's allegiance with their current source of funding had her more upset than she wished to acknowledge. The fact that she'd been dragged unwittingly into a side-plot that had resulted in no positive outcomes, which had brought her not a single step closer to finding the key to igniting the revolution her people desired but had rather pushed her further from his vicinity, also had her on edge.

And after discovering that the man she'd captured was in this to disrupt not her organization's revolution but simply the murder of one he considered a friend, after being imparted with the knowledge that the man who worked in correlation with her was a murderer who'd stolen all that was precious from the one she held captive, she was having serious doubts about which side was right in the personal battle she'd inadvertently become enmeshed with.

The smiling jester who had so little care or concern for the world and was so motivated by personal success and greed that he killed without a care versus the snide jackass who's heart had been so shattered and faith in humanity had been so demolished that he killed without remorse.

She herself, while not one of the newly developing gifted children of vacuum, was a product of the colonies, having grown up surrounded by ventilation ducts rather than natural wind and cities overhead instead of stars. Her resolution to see her fellow colonists' freedom and rights fully recognized, to see her people granted the opportunity to escape the barricades set upon them by the Earth Sphere that swirled through space with them with its superior power and resources, was a resolution born of experience and first-hand knowledge granted by life under the Alliance's iron fist.

And now, she was faced with the realization that she'd been duped, that she'd been used, and that she'd acted exactly as any of her oppressors would have to another citizen of the stars.

A soft, steadying breath leaked from her nostrils before she decided to address her prisoner.

"So you were right. I'm willing to bet you're laughing hysterically at me behind those straight lips of yours," she quietly huffed.

"Not really. I'm too pissed at myself for not seeing it before now to bother finding the humor in what just happened to you."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah," James quietly snorted. "I should've seen what he had up his sleeve. Xavier's been a greedy bastard ever since he figured out that he wasn't capable of besting everyone else around him for the sheer fact that there are some in the universe who're higher on the evolutionary ladder than himself. Should've figured that with the amount of information he was privy to that he'd be setting the stage to undermine Century Discover as soon as their war was set to begin. Sneaky little prick."

"So, what are you planning to do?" she quietly asked, her voice filled with soft pity and sorrow for his position for the first time since she'd captured him.

A cynical chuckle leaked from his throat. "Take a nap."

Lyssa's hands fell from their comfortable embrace, one smacking loudly on the table, the other plopping indignantly on James' arm. "Take a nap?" she incredulously bit.

"Yep. Can't do much else. I'm in no position to stop Xavier right now. At this rate, he'll find the kid. You'll get to see the 'traitor to space' dead as you wish. You'll get your revolution. And White Fang will be slaughtered when he undermines Century Discover, reveals them and their ties to your organization to the Earth Sphere United Nation, and the fury of Earth comes down on you both. And Winner Industries will go down when he reveals that not only was a member of the board responsible for setting up the assassination of the CEO, but was also holding correspondence with those organizations that created the new war, breaking the pacifistic dictates established by the Winner family before their corporation moved into space. He'll be making a shit-ton of money from his scheme and dancing off while innocent people like you get crushed."

Shaking her head, she scowled. "He had us all fooled."

"No, he had you fooled. And he has Century Discover fooled. He has Fugardi fooled. He has Sogran fooled. But he never fooled me."

"So you were never working with him?"

James smiled faintly. "Nope. Joined with him to see what he knew and throw everything he was doing askew. Pity you're so damned persistent in holding me in place, otherwise I could be succeeding."

"Do you truly hate him so much that you'd destroy the revolution to come just to spite him?" she spit, her lips turning with a scowl.

"Nah, not really. I hate him enough that I want to squeeze his neck between my fingers until I see the blood vessels in his eyes burst and his tongue fill his mouth. I don't give a rat's ass about the revolution, save for the fact that it'll upset the nice li'l life I've got going on the side. Plus I rather like Quatre. Can't have you slaughtering one of the keystones of future peace, now."

"You like…?"

"He's a pleasant enough kid, when he's not scheming against you and locked in mental battle with you over everything on God's green earth."

A small smile lit her lips as she silently giggled, disbelieving her own heart as it began to inform her that her prisoner could be quite charming during those times he wasn't being a decrepit jerk. "You're a funny man, Mr. Waverly."

"Try to be, sweetcakes. Can't deal with life otherwise. Gets too damned depressing."

Shaking her head, she lifted her hand from his arm and set her fingers lightly upon his forehead. "Why wouldn't you tell me all of this before?"

"I really didn't have a reason. As I said, I had to keep at it until I figured out what Xavier was up to. Now I know, so there's no reason to hide anymore. Revealing what I think and feel won't result in any difference in my future, the kid's future, or Earth's future. I'm still probably going to die soon enough with the amount of injuries you've given me. Ain't feeling the hottest, you know."

She quirked a brow, a tiny frown demolishing her previous shy smile.

"But that's beside the point, of course. The kid's still going to be running from all of you, especially with his overly vigilant protector by his side. He'll run 'till you get sick of chasing him, or he'll run 'till he's caught and killed. He's out of my hands. And you and your revolution won't be stopped, no matter how many people it's going to kill."

"The lives of those who are dedicated to the sanctity of-"

"Can it, Lyssa. I've heard it all before," James tiredly huffed. "I've heard it all before. And before you go into the speech, I know how this is an illusory peace. I know that better than any of you, I'm willing to bet. But this revolution isn't the way to go. Killing innocent people isn't the way to do things. Having dedicated soldiers fighting for their ideals isn't going to solve anything."

"Then how do you suggest we-"

"Don't do anything," he interrupted, closing his pained hazel eyes. "Don't do anything. Just let things roll out as they should. Problems have a tendency to solve themselves over time. Hatred turns to indifference. Loathing can turn to love. Hardened soldiers can find peace. Murderers can discover guilt and absolution."

Closing her eyes, she buried her lightly painted pink fingernails into his bangs, lightly caressing his forehead. "Speaking of yourself, Mr. Waverly?"

"Mm."

"You paint a desolate picture with your words. Forbidding us to do anything because it will inadvertently slaughter those we're trying to win freedom for…?"

"Just telling the truth."

"How do you know it's the truth?" she softly pressed, even as she slowly eased her seat from the chair to the edge of the rack he was tied to.

"Because I've seen it. I've been seeing it my entire life. I saw it with the Alliance's march across the colonies immediately following Heero Yuy's assassination when I was a child. I saw it when the rebellion started trying to strike against their oppressors. I saw it when the Specials broke loose of the Alliance as OZ. I saw it when madness struck those who had flown from the colonies to find revenge and turned their weapons towards the colonies that were their homes. I saw it during the holiday season last year."

"And you don't see an end?"

"Not unless humanity changes. Not unless people like you learn to let things progress as nature would have them and let time create our desired world."

"But some of us can't just idly sit by," she whispered as she slowly bent at the waist, bringing her hand out of his bangs and resting it instead at his side. "We've got to press the issue."

"Fault of humans right there, I say."

"Are we really so bad?" she quietly breathed as she set her lips over his, silencing his rebuttal with a tender touch and teasing tongue.

As she pulled away, James let his hazel eyes slowly drift back open. "No. You aren't."

She smiled as she swept her hair behind her ears, readying herself to descend again.

Turning his face, James huffed softly. "But you do expect the impossible."

"The impossible?"

"Yep. Revolutions to occur that won't hurt innocents, people with the determination to live to simply roll over and die for your plans, the people that love those people you want to kill to stand idly by, and me to forget that you've been torturing me for two damned weeks and make out with you."

Lyssa's eyebrow ticked.

"Told'ja when you picked me up, kitten. I've got a girl, and she'd kill me if I betrayed her."

The woman's lightly glossed lips turned with predatory intent. "You're in no position to deny me."

"True enough."

"So-"

"You won't."

She stared, her eyes wide, as she focused on the golden-hazel eyes that were fixated on her.

"Leave the room, Lyssa. Leave now."

Dutifully, the woman rose from her chair and left the room, ensuring that she shut the door behind her, her movements stiff and swaying as she hazily went through the motions demanded of her.

Sighing, James returned his gaze to the ceiling.

-- 08:05 --

"He doesn't know?" Lyssa quietly breathed.

"Nah. Can see it in his eyes. The frustration that's burning there is rather palatable, don't you think, dear?"

Lyssa stared for a few moments at Xavier, and then at James, then returned her gaze once more to Xavier. "You aren't-"

"No, he isn't one of us," James interrupted. "We've just been working together for awhile, so he can read me fairly well."

"Got that right, buddy," Xavier playfully chirped. "So, you really have nothing useful for me?"

"Nothing at all." Shutting his hazel eyes, he sighed quietly. "I'm telling you that he's been moved. I have no clue where Barton's taken him by now."

"I see. And that pleasant little twerp you sent after me? It was you, wasn't it?"

"Oh, Duo?" James laughed. "Got caught, did he?"

"He's quite dead by now," Xavier said with a smirk.

James' laughter caught in his throat. "Oh really," he replied moments later.

"Yep. Sogran had him locked down after we'd run him through the wringer a few times. Should've died by dehydration by now."

"Fuck," James softly breathed.

"So, anyone else I should know about?" Xavier playfully pressed, yanking the student chair along the hardwood floor to come to rest beside the rack. Tossing himself into it, he flopped his elbows gracelessly on the table and held his chin in his hands, smiling all the while.

"No. If the braided wonder's dead, there's no one else."

Xavier chuckled softly. "That's two of yours under my belt. We're almost even again, dear friend."

James' glare was poisonously venomous as it set itself on Xavier's grinning face.

Lyssa simply stared between the two men, wringing her fingers nervously as the uncomfortable energy that all but radiated between them seemed to permeate the entire room.

"So, why are you fucking White Fang? Because they're partially my brain child?"

Lyssa nearly choked, her eyes wide as she stared at the man upon the rack.

"Nah. Because once they're tied with Century Discover, the pay granted by the Earth Sphere United Nation for their undermining will double," Xavier honestly replied, his smile deepening with the thought. "The fact that you convinced Quinze that it would be a good idea to organize such a group doesn't factor into things a bit."

"Should've known, you lousy son of a bitch," James bit.

"But you didn't," Xavier said, his grin filling with malice. "Just like in the good old days. You running after my heels, yipping like a pathetic little dog, all your space-bred abilities failing to beat me."

"You're killing us all with this plot of yours, Xavier. You know that," James hissed. "Not just the White Fang and Century Discover, add in Winner Industries, the Earth Sphere United Nations, thousands of innocents and every one of _us_. Can you live with that on your conscious?"

Arching a brow, the brown-eyed man simply chuckled. "What conscious? We're all dead, anyway. Every one of us, lead to this dreary future by a shattered past flooded with mistakes and misery. Might as well make the best of it while I'm here."

Xavier lightly patted James' head as he rose from his chair. "Now stay there like a good boy, will you? Don't want you interfering now, you know."

James glared daggers at the back of his former working partner as the slender man made his way out of the room, leaving him alone with the young lady who'd captured him two weeks ago.

_tbc..._


	22. Chapter XXI

A/N: The information presented about 'newtypes' is direct from the Gundam series. While not so prevalent in Gundam Wing as it is in the original (re: U-timeline universe of Gundam 0080/0083/08th team/etc.) series' storylines, my buddy A-babe pointed out that Quatre most reflects the powers and abilities of the most powerful of newtypes (he rants on and on that once fully grown and fully developed in his prowess, he might be able to be equivalent to Lala. I just smile as he flails). That argument and the newtype theory have been taken into account for both 'Once' and 'Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness' so no, I'm not just pulling this stuff out of my ass. It's actually in the series. (How else do we explain golden-glow boy and the floating head of Relena?)

A/N 2: With the plethora of plot revelation in this chapter, I feel there's almost no need for me to ever again try to attempt to explain where this is going. (laughs) Just remember - I'm tying together the TV series, Blind Target and my own fanfic 'Once' in one delightfully convoluted plot.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_And if you're giving in, then you're giving up  
cause in your sad machines  
you'll forever stay  
burning up in speed  
lost inside the dreams, of teen machines_

_Here Is No Why_

-- 06:52 --

Trowa grunted quietly as he opened his eyes, looking with slight dismay at the empty condition of the cooling spot located next to him upon the bed he and Quatre had been sharing for the last couple of days.

He'd finally gotten used to sleeping with another body next to him, and had indeed come to enjoy the sensation of having slender arms wrapped about his torso while he drifted into the darkness of sleep in which were contained pleasant dreams rather than nightmarish shadows. Ever since he and Quatre had finally consummated their relationship and delved into their respective emotional depths, Trowa had learned once more of the pleasant daydream that was hope, that was the uneventful life he had always dared to imagine being his.

Those dreams he had long since given up on, those dreams that he had wished could become reality but prevented from becoming such through his own paranoia and edgy refusal to cease glancing over his shoulder or into shadows for stalkers out to end the lie that was his life, seemed to be reality during those calm, sedate times he laid upon the hotel bed with the slim blonde boy he'd secretly adored since surrendering to the giant white Gundam so very long ago.

Emerald eyes glowered hatefully at the empty blankets next to him. He knew that Quatre was there not too long ago. He could still feel the warmth of the other pilot's body in those fabric folds, still smell the soft odor of his shampoo left upon their shared pillow from the shower he'd taken last night.

Glancing at the clock, Trowa groaned. 'What is it with me getting stuck with people who believe in rising before seven in the morning? And where is he, anyway?'

Trowa finally decided to drag himself out of bed, muttering quiet obscenities concerning the time and it's lack of godliness while he shuffled upon the thin carpet of the hotel room to the complimentary coffee pot and its stack of mandated paper cups. He blinked as he discovered that coffee had already been brewed that was blacker than even he was used to seeing, simmering merrily in the bottom of the pot and waiting for him to pour it free of its glass prison. He was quick to oblige the liquid's wishes, soon sentencing it to the confines of his cup and soon afterwards his stomach instead.

It was then that he finally noticed that the door to their room was slightly ajar.

Trowa nearly dropped his coffee as panic immediately overtook him. Slamming the drawer directly underneath the coffee pot open, he hurriedly fished the Browning Buck Mark 22 out of that drawer's confines. Gripping the black molded plastic grips tightly, he swiftly checked the clip's contents to verify it was full and loaded the gun, chambering one of the .22 bullets with blinding quickness. Leading his way with the five-inch barrel of his handgun, he slithered towards the door.

The last couple of weeks he'd been on Earth had taught him to be extraordinarily cautious and always suspicious of all things that were not as he expected them to be.

-- 14:44, 1 Day Ago --

The door was slightly ajar as Trowa emerged from the bathroom, dripping hair still draped without control across his face. As he snatched a white hotel-issued blanket from its curtain rod and ruefully smothered his defiant locks in it, he walked clothed in naught but his boxers to that slab of wood, taking a cautionary glance out of it.

His eyes widened considerably as he stared at the splattering of red liquid that decorated their makeshift porch's ground. Staring incredulously at the blonde who knelt before it, scrubbing it away with a bucket of water and a scrub brush obviously garnered from a janitor's closet, Trowa frowned. "What happened?"

The tired blonde glanced up and sighed. "I think he may have followed the car."

"Your blood or his?"

"His," Quatre quietly admitted, a slight shake of his head displaying his regret.

"Where's the body?"

"The Maguanac have taken care of it. They're getting a new car and a new hotel room as we speak."

Trowa sighed quietly, a frown lighting his lips. "When did this happen?"

"Just a few minutes ago, actually. You were in the middle of your shower."

"How could he have figured out which room we're in?"

Quatre shrugged slightly, his motion stiff and clumsy. "Probably saw me. I was outside watching the sunrise."

Trowa felt his lips turn with a scowl. "Quatre…."

"So now I'm to be denied the chance to see the sun? To feel the touch of fresh air upon my face?" the small blonde boy quietly whispered, his scrubbing temporarily stopping.

Closing his emerald eyes, Trowa sighed. "It's dangerous right now."

"And when will it stop being dangerous? When will this all come to an end?" Quatre's voice softly whispered. "Or is it always to be like this? Am I always to live in fear, waiting for someone to end my life just to make a statement to their fellows in the colonies or on earth, to spite the peace that we've fought so hard to make a reality? What kind of life is that worth? Hardly seems worth continuing."

Trowa's eyes widened. "You don't mean that."

"I do. I'm so close to giving in to what they want. To giving up. What's it worth?"

"What do you mean, 'what's it worth'? You don't mean that."

Bowing his head over the bloody puddle he was so desperately scrubbing at just a few minutes ago, Quatre sighed softly. Trowa barely spotted the droplets of tears that dripped from his nose to mix with the water that was spread about the ground.

Stepping across the ruby stain, the lank ex-pilot knelt beside his blonde counterpart, lightly enveloping him in a comforting hug. "It's worth your friends and those you love, isn't it? There are a good number of people that would be sad if you were to give up now. After all, we've fought so hard with you and for you. Don't make our efforts to help you be in vain, Quatre."

Quatre glanced over at his companion, sniffing once. "I'm sorry. It's just –"

"It's hard. I realize that. However, we're here to help. I'm here at your side, and you're not allowed to give up unless I do. Out there somewhere are Duo and Mr. Waverly, and if you're right in your assumption, Heero. And forty Maguanac soldiers with that wolfish leader of theirs. You can't disappoint us all."

A small shrug moved Quatre's shoulders. "I guess you're right."

"And if you're living for us alone, it's just as bad as if you were dead."

"Huh?" Quatre instantly responded, staring into Trowa's gaze and refusing to break contact.

Trowa held the incredulous blue stare. "Live for yourself, Quatre. Live because you want to, not just because we're fighting for you. You wanted to live so terribly during the war that you motivated the rest of us to continue on as well. Don't give up now, just because you don't know what's on the game's board or who's planning what against you."

A slight smile turned the blonde's lips. "Listen to you, Trowa. Giving inspirational speeches. Duo would keel over and die if he heard about any of this."

"Not a word of this to anyone else, or I'll be a mime for a year."

"Can't have that, can we?" Quatre giggled, sticking his tongue out at his partner.

"…."

"Trowa!"

A smile took the green-eyed boy's face. "Let me help you with this. Get some Tylenol for your shoulder."

"Fine."

-- 06:59 --

Trowa slowly nudged the door further open with the tip of his pistol's barrel.

'Not again. Please don't let this have happened again. Please don't let me have been caught unable to protect him. Don't let me have been unavailable for yet another attack. Please don't let them have found us again, whoever 'they' are. Please, don't let Quatre be out there scrubbing another blood puddle.'

'Please, don't let him be the source of a blood puddle. Please, please, please….'

He grimaced as he stepped boldly into the open, immediately cocking his pistol, ready to fire as he hefted the gun before his line of sight and aimed at the first object he noted moving that was vaguely bipedal.

Quatre yelped and immediately ducked, his movement so swift it nearly startled Trowa into the action of pulling his gun's trigger.

Hefting his barrel aloft with almost spastic quickness, Trowa bit down a startled outburst and instead squeezed his eyes shut, focusing his attention on his fingers and willing them not to squeeze the trigger they were desperate to pull. A bare hint of a second flew past before he lowered his gun and snapped his eyes open, staring almost dubiously at the blonde crouched before him. "Quatre…!" he breathed.

Smiling sheepishly up at his protector, Quatre let a slight giggle pass his lips.

"I could have shot you," Trowa huffed.

"But you didn't," Quatre quipped, regaining his proper upright stance and dusting off his knees ruefully, "so it's alright."

"Why are you out here?"

A small shrug moved the blonde's shoulders. "I told you before. I like to watch the sunrise."

"But-"

"Let's make one thing clear," Quatre huffed quietly, his lips turning with a slight frown. "I'm going to try to keep going, to not give in and not give up. But I'm not going to sacrifice everything I consider life for the sake of living. I've already had to give up nearly everything else. My ability to freely move, to just go out for an evening, to travel to and from work without fear, to be able to sit at home and relax with a cup of coffee and a blanket with my fuzzy bunny slippers on watching late night television. I've been scared every moment of my life since the war came to its termination. Since the threats started coming and snipers started appearing along my commuting route."

Trowa arched a brow as the blonde turned away from him, lightly slamming his fists against the railing of their small hotel room's walkway.

"Trowa, I refuse to be denied this last aspect of a regular life. I've done this every day that I can recall. Even during the war, I'd be up in my tent watching the sun rise across the landscape, or I'd be in my office watching it rise through my windows, or just lounging in Sandrock watching it rise through my video monitors. I… I can't give everything up just to live."

Trowa hung his head slightly, the slightest sensation of shame washing over him. "I'm sorry, Quatre."

"Don't apologize," the smaller ex-pilot grumped. "Just don't try to stop me. I can protect myself if the need arises."

"Will you protect yourself?" Trowa softly mused.

"I took a man's life yesterday morning, didn't I?" Quatre softly said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Not even a time of war, and I sacrificed another person for my own continued existence."

"Self defense is justifiable. As long as you'll continue to defend yourself, I won't try to stop you. I just may require that you rouse me before you come out here."

"Rouse you?"

"Two guns are better than one," Trowa reasoned with a slight shrug, sweeping his slowly tiring eyes over the brilliant horizon. Now that the adrenaline of the early-morning discovery of an open door and flashbacks of the day before had worn off, sleep was calling to him once more.

"But your gun would be half asleep. It's more difficult rousing you in the morning than it is to get-"

"Let me guess. Duo to shut up?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of getting Heero to stop and smell the roses. Or Lucrenzia to stop pining over her precious Zechs with every waking moment of the day."

"Or Wufei to stop calling every woman he meets 'onna' in his first breath?"

Quatre laughed outright, shaking his head. "That's a good one. And yes, that's a good equivalent, too."

"I'm not that bad," Trowa groused before yawning mightily and turning to toss his gun through the open door, listening to it thump heavily onto the thinly carpeted floor.

"Sure you're not."

Trowa snorted before marching back into the hotel room, intent on grabbing another cup of coffee before rejoining Quatre for an assuredly long morning of watching the sun crest over the hills and listening to the songs of birds flood the air.

'Dreaming of peace, only to have that dream shattered the next moment. Happens every time,' Trowa silently grumped as he hefted the coffee pot from its hotplate home and poured the remains of the thick black ooze Quatre apparently thought was coffee into his paper cup.

-- 20:05, 16 Days Ago --

"Have you ever dreamed, Trowa?"

His brow knitting, Trowa snorted. "We're getting entirely off the subject."

"Have you?"

"I did once." Looking ahead to the shack they were slowly approaching, Trowa let a soft, desolate sigh escape his lungs. "I dreamed of the life I would have with the end of the war, existing in a world of peace with those I care for without having to worry about who was going to die next and when, without having to keep my eyes constantly perusing my environment to find my next attacker before he found me."

"Nice dream, kid. What happened to it?"

"It's… nearly come true."

"Nearly?" James inquired.

"I can't stop looking over my shoulder. No matter how much I attempt to convince myself that our time as soldiers is done and the time for our lives as normal civilians has arrived, I can't stop looking."

"But you continue to attempt to advert your eyes from those who would kill you?"

"Yes. I want that life to come to pass; I want to live a life where I have no worries outside of how my next performance will go and what Catherine will be attempting to force on me for dinner." Bowing his head, Trowa lifted a hand to tug the collar of his jacket up to shield his neck from the cold breadth of wind that whistled past them as they made their way over the cold sands.

"You're still clinging to the hopes of youth. The hope to live, the hope to prove yourself. Your youth, your life, your innocence. You're still living the beauty of youth, tainted by the stain of the nasty, harsh world that surrounds us."

-- 07:13 --

Trowa huffed as he rejoined the blonde at the hotel room's railing that ran along the walkway coursing before their front door. "Bright," he commented idly, squinting as the sun's fierce rays struck at his sleepy eyes.

"Yes. It gets that way when the sun's up," Quatre said, his smirk more than evident in his voice.

"Ha ha."

Glancing over the sprawling cityscape, Trowa sighed quietly. Their surroundings were standard faire, dull compared to some he'd seen but more exhilarating than most. Across the six-lane two-way street lay a plethora of fast food restaurants and a few other small hotels. Parking lots shimmered with brightly colored, varied modeled cars of patrons to those institutions. A bit further down the street, beyond the stop light that held traffic at bay to allow those who'd waited patiently to turn their opportunity to move, rested a strip mall and an onramp to the bustling freeway who's racket was barely audible beyond the huge brick sound-dampening walls that flanked it. The upraised freeway, an arrow pointed directly towards the downtown segment of the town he and Quatre were currently inhabiting, was nearly at a standstill as morning rush hour was well underway, lending to the occasional honking of an impatient motorist's horn. Sporadically placed trees grew from those specified placed left dirt in the concrete sidewalk that were designated for them, their green leaves straining towards the bright sun and rustling slightly in a welcome morning breeze.

In the distance, the sunlight glimmered with terrible brightness from the eastern walls of huge skyscraping buildings that erupted from the earth and stretched mightily for the heavens, home to offices, shopping complexes and the like. Downtown was a place Trowa had been once – it was crowded both with cars and foot traffic, loud with honking and shouting, and had an atmosphere of hostility underlying the toleration of tourists like himself that put the young ex-pilot entirely on edge. Unnerved by the plethora of hiding places available in the city's sprawl while weaving amongst huge buildings and the relative lack of openly present police protection, he'd urged Quatre to leave as soon as humanly possible.

It wasn't the friendliest place to be, but it was better than being directly in the sites of their enemies. Trowa was grateful only for that.

He stared at the small trees that grew in their sidewalk prisons as the songs of birds flooded the air. "Cheerful sounding, aren't they?"

Trowa glanced over at his companion when he didn't get a reply.

Quatre was focused on one tree in particular, his tourmaline eyes no longer sparkling with the glee of watching a bright and beautiful sunrise in a flawless, surprisingly blue sky thanks to the winds that had blown the smog blanket further inland. Instead those eyes were hard and calculating.

"Quatre?" he asked again, his voice soft with suspicion.

"Please be quiet," Quatre whispered.

Trowa shrugged and did as asked. It was many long minutes before he was granted the attention of those eyes and a full frontal view of a small, smiling pale-skinned face.

"What was all of that about?" Trowa asked, barely noticing that the small flock of sparrows that had been singing so brightly and brilliantly in the tree that had held Quatre's attention so thoroughly had sprung into flight, rapidly winging their way due north.

"They were delivering a message."

Arching a brow, the emerald-eyed boy nearly scoffed. "Delivering a message?"

"Yes. Apparently, Mr. Waverly has everything on his end under control, and asks that I stay put wherever I'm hidden away."

"Quatre, how could you get that from birds?"

A slight quirk of a brow and a chuckle answered Trowa for a few moments before small shoulders shrugged. "Just something I've always been able to do."

'Wait a minute…'

-- 23:08, 195 Days Ago --

Laying a hand on Quatre's shoulder, he frowned. "Both you and I know that isn't possible. You aren't telling me the truth."

Quatre's aquamarine eyes flew open as he stared at Trowa.

"Just tell me, Quatre."

Lowering his gaze, he sighed softly. "I wasn't lying about the serum. It does, indeed, numb the mind and make a person susceptible to suggestion."

"However?"

"It doesn't completely lower the barriers of the brain. That's impossible."

"So how does it work? How would you control another mind?"

"You…"

Trowa nearly snarled in frustration.

Catching the hint, Quatre gulped. "It only works with those who are gifted. Gifted with abnormally strong psychowave presence."

"Meaning?"

"The mind-controlling application of that particular drug only works for newtypes."

-- 23:31, 195 Days Ago --

Duo glanced up as the other two pilots finally arrived in the room that currently provided shelter for both him and Chad. "Finally decided to join us, eh?"

Quatre shrugged solemnly as Trowa nodded. They both walked to the edge of the bed.

Chad looked at them with weak, wild eyes. His gaze settled in particular upon Quatre.

"Tell me," Quatre whispered softly.

"You're not the only one around here."

"Not the only one strong enough to utilize it?"

"No."

-- 07:20 --

"Because you're a newtype?" Trowa surmised, arching a brow as Quatre simply hung his head.

"Aa," the blonde simply replied.

"Which means what, exactly?"

Staring incredulously at Trowa, Quatre snorted. "Mocking me?"

"No. I don't keep up on scientific communities and their discoveries. I have no idea of what you're talking about with that term."

A slight smile graced Quatre's lips before he looked away and sighed. "What are your thoughts on the theory of human evolution?"

Trowa arched a brow as his green eyes shone with curiosity. Human evolution was something he'd never bothered giving much thought. "I think it's possible. Probable? Not likely. But as with all living things, evolution is a distinct possibility, given enough stimulation of the surrounding environment for it to happen."

"Ah, so you're not one of those 'humans have reached the pinnacle of the evolutionary ladder and wouldn't dare' campers?"

"No," Trowa honestly replied with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"To see if you'd believe me."

"You're saying newtypes are the next step in human evolution, aren't you?"

Quatre simply nodded. "That's the going theory."

"And you're one of them?"

"Apparently."

"And what brought this evolutionary jump on?"

"Humanity's move into the unforgiving reaches of space. Humans are social animals, Trowa. When they lose contact with their communities, they're liable to go insane. Humanity had to cope. Thus, they developed the ability to remain in contact with one another over extraordinary distances, not requiring physical, visual or sound contact. They can communicate utilizing psychowaves, the brainwaves that are exuded by all living things – newtypes have an unusually strong projection, allowing them to touch and analyze the waves of others."

"And in the most severe of circumstances, control and manipulate them?" Trowa mused quietly.

Quatre visibly winced. "I never meant to-"

Trowa immediately stared at the blonde and interrupted, "I'm not accusing you of anything. You're justified in doing whatever you need to continue surviving."

A soft huff escaped the blonde's nose.

"You refuse to accept my words?"

Shrugging slightly, Quatre let a wane smile encroach upon his lips. "That's the going scientific theories on the newtype phenomenon," he stated, brashly changing the conversation back to its original subject matter. "Basically, humanity's development of empathic and slight telepathic ability. It's still so much of a fluke that those who study the trend won't call it the 'next step in human evolution' owing to the fact that with nearly two hundred years in colonial space, newtypes are still so few and far between that there's not even an appreciable number to study, much less to call a community."

Trowa smiled softly. "I'd believe it."

"You would?"

"Aa. It explains a lot. How you apparently know what I'm thinking when we're playing chess, for example. And how sometimes you can pull my thoughts directly off of my brain and respond to them before I have the opportunity to decide whether or not I'm going to voice my opinion."

A small droop of his head and a sheepish grin accompanied Quatre's response. "Oops. I don't mean to intrude, but-"

"I don't mind. You're just doing what comes naturally, right?"

"Yeah."

Trowa nodded. "And the birds…. You're telling me that asswipe Waverly's one of them too?"

"He's a child of the colonies. His family's been space-bound as long as my own. His genetic makeup lends towards the probability."

"Clear answer, Quatre."

"Yes."

Trowa nodded. "And Johnson?"

"No," the blonde simply replied. "And I think that's what makes him such a bitter man. He has a severe superiority complex ingrained in his psyche, and it's my opinion that the knowledge that he can never be superior to everything around him has driven him over what slight line he had drawn between rational thought and insane lust for power."

"He knows of you?"

"He and James have been working partners since you and I were eight years old, Trowa. Xavier has had more than enough time to learn about us, and given the man's intelligence and awareness of all things surrounding him, he's had enough open opportunities to deduce what makes those who surround him so capable."

Trowa simply scratched his chin. "I know that Mr. Johnson hired Mr. Waverly to assist him in terminating you. That much was divulged. And that Mr. Johnson captured Mr. Waverly when he actively turned against him to support you…."

"Trying to figure out what's going on?" Quatre said with a smile.

"Yeah.

-- 11:28, 10 Days Ago --

"So you're saying that-"

"That this is different than last time, Trowa. That this time there are no double agents betraying me, altering my plans as we go. That the one who still lives, the traitor who escaped the assassin's touch, has already made his intentions well known. There is no deception this time. And..."

"And?" Trowa pressed.

"And I'm suspecting that he's the one responsible for his involvement this time. That it was his intention to disrupt my plans."

"So he could strike against you while you were adjusting the board?"

Quatre nodded. "Precisely."

-- 08:00 --

'So this time, it's Xavier Johnson's responsibility for the alterations to Quatre's life. For the inclusion of James Waverly, for the goal of disrupting Quatre's plans to preserve his own life. So Xavier's behind this entirely, subsidized by his employer.'

-- 20:10, 12 Days Ago --

'His play was so incredibly sloppy. Why? What was his focus?'

'Or was that his point? That he has no focus, and he's simply blindly running about in a vain attempt to stop whoever it is that's striking out against him with no plan or focus because he also has no clue what's really going on?'

-- 09:33, 5 Days Ago --

'That was the point... that was the point!'

'You're lost. You're running scared. And you're too focused on your own survival to utilize your friends to assist you. That was the point of that game! My God, it took me a week to figure that out!'

Trowa resisted the urge to slap his forehead.

"What?" Quatre softly asked, turning down the volume on the TV, diverting his attention from the continuing news report to focus instead on his friend.

"I just figured something out," Trowa said with a snort. "I finally figured out what you were showing me on that board."

Quatre simply nodded.

"Just one thing, Quatre... I know that you don't know what's going on, who's behind it or why. But, have you played with the idea that it could be that same guy? It's too much of a coincidence to bypass - the surviving men who were involved with the battle between that guy and you are involved again. It's another plot that's seeking to stop you, though this time it's trying to kill you instead of simply derail your efforts. This time they're the aggressor instead of you. Do you think-"

"That it could be revenge? Or some plot to undermine me? Find out what I'm doing and put a stop to anything I might have underway before I can accomplish it?" Quatre finished for him.

Trowa silently nodded his head.

"No," Quatre said simply, decisively.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because of what I was shown."

-- 13:18, 22 Days Ago --

As he walked out of the ground-floor lobby almost thirty minutes after leaving the office that occupied the top floor of the huge skyscraper, the man smiled slightly, listening to the conversation that rolled from the small ear-piece he had discretely sitting in his ear-cannel.

"Yes, Mr. Winner. An attempted security breech while you were at lunch. We can replay the tapes for you if you like, but the one that would have given us the best view of his activities was covered by a soda can at the time he was trying to break into your office," one voice, husky and deep, rumbled.

"Really. I see. Thank you, Mr. Shulman. You can give me those tapes in an hour, yes?" a second voice quickly said, its tenor light and almost uncaring as it sighed.

"As you wish, Mr. Winner," the first voice replied. With the sound of footprints walking away, the second voice sighed softly.

"I suspected as much. Interesting setup, too..."

'He found the board,' the man reflected, listening carefully to the sounds coming through his receiver.

"So that's what you're planning," the light voice muttered softly across the earpiece.

"What was that, Mr. Winner?" another voice piped in.

"Nothing, nothing. Just looking at something... seems a bit out of place, is all."

"I see. The chessboard?"

"Isn't at all like it was left."

-- 09:40, 5 Days Ago --

"So it was changed?" Trowa asked.

Quatre nodded. "There was no onyx king. And the only piece that could save me was a rook."

Trowa shook his head. "I don't comprehend what that means."

A small smile took the blonde's lips. "That's because you've never played against Mr. Waverly before, my dear friend. He was showing me what was going on in the camp of my enemies through the board."

"How?"

"No onyx king. That means that Douglas Kesslinger isn't involved. This isn't something involving the Plan. And that's exactly why the white rook was the piece that was able to save me from the fires - because this has nothing to do with what James wants to come to pass, because this has nothing to do with Kesslinger's world of the future. This is a plan that runs askew of his dreams, and so he's helping me. No, Trowa, this isn't a repeat of what happened six months ago. Though most of the same players are on the board and are on the same sides they were on before, there's a different mastermind manning the opposing pieces in this game."

-- 20:21, 16 Days Ago --

"I'm not here for small-talk. I don't care how you are or what you've been doing for these last six months."

"Alright, point taken." His smirk still upon his lips, Xavier Johnson slipped into a chair and shook his head. Leaning against the table, his elbow resting firmly against its top, he pressed his cheek into the cupped palm of his hand. "You do already know that there's someone after the life of Quatre Raberba Winner, don't you?"

"I've been allowed to be aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here," Trowa said with a snort.

"Alright. There's some suspicion that it's a radical terrorist group who opposes to the peace promotion that he's heading. They want him out of the picture to throw the Earth Sphere into chaos and utilize that situation to begin another war, one which would possibly secure them a foothold at the head of rule on its termination."

"Something like what Romefeller originally intended?"

Xavier chuckled. "More like what Dekim of the Barton Foundation had dreamed about."

Trowa let his eyes widen.

"Yes, I know all about Operation Meteor. Don't be so shocked, kiddo! Despite what that jackass outside has told you, I'm not as incompetent as I look."

"I never believed you were incompetent for a moment," Trowa truthfully admitted, narrowing his eyes. "I believe you, like Duo, play the part of the chipper fool to turn people away from the suspicion that you actually know much more than you let on. You hide your knowledge, your awareness of the situations that surround you, and your intellect behind a mask."

Arching a brow, Xavier finally let his lips fall from their smile. "I see."

"Please, continue. What group is this, and why are they only targeting Quatre? Certainly Relena Dorlain would be as much of a probable target for such a purpose."

"Well, here's what I know. From what my employer has told me, it's not simply because he's a representative in this fight for peace. It's also because he's from the colonies. The same stigmatism isn't held towards Ms. Dorlain as she's a simple earthling, and can't be held to the expectation to understand the pain and the loneliness experienced by the colonies as Mr. Winner should be able to. He's become Earth's lap dog, and the people are angry."

"And how does your employer know this?" Trowa asked softly.

"Because he's been petitioned by this organization to join them in their quest to overthrow the current reign of the Earth Sphere and assist in their rise to power."

"And how could your employer do this?" he pressed on.

Xavier shrugged as he calmly confirmed, "Because my employer was once CEO of a weapons manufacturing enterprise. Though he's since turned his plants to colony-based manufacturing in an attempt to assist in the repair of the damages done during the battles of the last few turbulent months that preceded the Eve War, his reputation as a weapons manufacturer remains rather widely spread and well known."

-- 08:05 --

Trowa blinked a few times. 'Wait a second. He told me the answer.'

'He told me the freaking answer!'

Quatre glanced over at his morning partner and arched a brow. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Not going to glean them directly?" Trowa half-jested.

Quatre scowled at the mock accusation. "Despite what you may believe, I don't like invading other people's mental sanctity. It's simply that some times, I can't help it. It's difficult to differentiate wave patterns from projected statements sometimes, so I answer before I have the opportunity to decipher if the message was actually intended for me."

"I wasn't accusing you of anything, Quatre. I was attempting to jest."

Quatre smiled faintly. "You need more practice."

A mock scowl touched the emerald-eyed boy's lips. "Noted. Maybe I should take lessons from Heero."

"Oh dearest God, no! Try Duo. He's a lot more entertaining. Heero's humor is so dry and next to nonexistent."

"I was thinking about something Xavier Johnson said to me awhile ago."

"Ah, back on subject," Quatre said with a nod. "Please, continue."

"Does he usually have a penchant for telling half-truths?"

Turning away, Quatre stared to the north, his eyes tracing the path followed by the birds he'd communicated with earlier that morning. "Yes. As James always puts it, his inability to lie with a perfectly straight face and fool people one hundred percent of the time without fail is what gives him the smaller paycheck. Xavier has some troubles lying convincingly, especially to people who are especially aware of certain situations or hyper-cautious around him. All people, not just newtypes, have the ability to pick up on psychowave patterns. Most people call them 'airs' or 'auras'."

"Ah, the supposed 'sixth sense' of mankind?"

"Aa. The ability to tell if another person's overly stressed, trying to cover something."

"So he tells half-truths to get around that. So he radiates confidence in what he's saying, because he knows at least that portion of his conversation is total truth?"

"Yes," Quatre affirmed with a nod. "Why do you ask about such a thing?"

Trowa scratched his chin. "Because he may have told me part of what's going on."

Quatre's attention was fully on his partner. "Please, go on."

"He told me that his employer was a former weapons manufacturer working in correlation with the White Fang. That the White Fang wanted you dead to start a revolution, and that you specifically were targeted because you were a 'traitor to space' siding with Earth over the colonies that are your home."

"White Fang…?"

"Aa. He was proclaiming that his employer didn't really want to side with White Fang because of the fact that you were subsidizing him."

"False. I'm not subsidizing anyone. If anyone's being subsidized for revamping a weapons manufacturing program, it's by the Earth Sphere United Nation and by a division of the new governmental structure that's outside of my jurisdiction."

Trowa scratched his chin. "Thought so. That part of the conversation struck as being a bit hollow and strained. I believe him about White Fang and that his employer's the CEO of a weapons manufacturing company, though."

"Weapons manufacturing…."

"You thinking what I'm thinking, Quatre?"

A slow nod moved the boy's head, sweeping his blonde bangs directly before his eyes. "Aa. I think that clarifies where the interest in my Gundam comes from. And from what you've told me, it clearly states why I specifically would be targeted."

"But the Gundam belongs to the Maguanac, not you. At least, according to them."

"Probably coincidental. The Maguanac are known for having their mobile suit army. The fact that Sandrock is with them lends it towards a higher probability of discovery."

"I see," Trowa muttered, scratching his chin. "You want to know what else I'm thinking?"

"Hm?"

"That we really need to find Mr. Waverly and discover what else he's learned."

A sharp clip of a shake moved Quatre's head. "Nope. Now's not the time."

"Because the message said he has everything under control?"

"And because of the third part of that message."

Trowa arched a brow. "You never divulged."

"That someone else will be contacting me soon, and that said person will be making an attempt on my life."

Quatre's cell phone rang.

Cerulean and emerald eyes stared at the small cellular device seated upon the nightstand beside the bed in unison.

_tbc..._


	23. Chapter XXII

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

_-BEGIN FIC-_

_Now we drive the night, to the ironies of peace_

_you can't help deny forever_

_the tragedies reside in you_

_the secret sights hide in you_

_the lonely nights divide you in two_

_Bodies _

-- 23:47 --

"So that's what I know," the hazel-eyed man quietly finished, a slight nod of his head rustling long and uncontrolled hair that had not seen the touch of an elastic band in two weeks. Closing his eyes for but a moment, blocking his view of what was before him with the shielding curtain of his eyelashes, the lank figure let his tired sigh exude his thanks to the person who stood at ease in front of his figure. He shivered slightly as the cool night breeze caressed his tender, pulverized flesh, brushing over weeping scabs and barely-healing wounds.

"Hn. You should get to a hospital. With the extent of your injuries, you won't last long without professional medical attention."

A sharp bark of laughter escaped the worn man, his hazel eyes glistening coldly in the moon's pale white light. "Listen, boy. I know my own limits. I'll not be taking advice on what I should be doing with myself from a brat like yourself."

"Suit yourself," Heero gruffly said with a shrug. "If you fall dead in the streets, it's not my issue. Thank you for the information. You are certain you don't know where to find Trowa?"

"Positive. If I knew, I'd be going back myself. He probably has my weapons." A frown turned dried lips as the man Heero was addressing laid his hands lightly upon his jean-clad hips, temporarily forgetting the cold whispers of wind that clamored about his bare chest. "Little cock-fuck had better not be treating my babies roughly, or I'll rip his bang off."

An understanding nod was issued from Heero even as he crossed his leanly muscled arms over his own chest, clinging a bit more tightly to his loose button-up flannel shirt. "I understand that. Well. If you don't know where to find Trowa, I'll have to start searching on my own again. I was lucky enough to find you. Perhaps I will be lucky again."

"Start in Los Angeles," the man said quietly, his hazel eyes distant as he returned his gaze to the moon.

"Los Angeles? I thought you said you and he were bunking together in Barstow. As far as I know, it's a good two hour journey from one city to the other."

"Listen kid, just trust me on this one. LA would be the best place to start looking. I've got no freaking clue how you're going to start once you get there-"

"I'll figure something out," the ex-pilot said with a nod, letting his arms drop loosely to his sides. Wind stirring short, unruly brown bangs about furrowed brows, he frowned. "I would like a way to contact you again. Your ability for garnering information might be useful."

"Heh. You've yet to see me with a gun."

"Duo said you're a proficient torturer. I figure you're decent with any weapon you can get your hands on. But I'm more concerned about data reconnaissance."

Shaking his head slightly, his eyes closing once more even as his face remained directed to the brightest source of light in the night's dark curtain of blackness, he let his seemingly characteristic smirk fall lightly. "Nah. Can't help you out, kid. You know all that I've figured out that pertains to you. I've got to turn my eyes elsewhere."

Arching one brow, Heero stared with hard Prussian blue eyes. "You're going after him?"

"Yeah."

"Hn. I have two pieces of advice for you."

"Oh, this ought to be rich," the man huffed with his smirk instantly back in place, his hazel eyes glowering with unabashed cynicism at his young companion. "What?"

"First, get a gun."

"Easily enough accomplished," the tall man sighed with a shrug.

"Second, get a shirt."

A sweat drop lightly trickled down James Waverly's temple.

-- 06:15 --

Heero stared at the house that stood upon the street corner, one brow arched over a critical blue eye. He'd been on the surface of Earth for two days, and every clue he'd managed to dig from its unforgiving shadows had lead him here.

Four days ago, he'd found Duo so very near death that he'd feared the boy would perish before the ambulance he'd requested arrived. The braided ex-pilot of the Gundam Deathsythe had been locked in a closet-turned-cell within an abandoned manufacturing plant upon the Lunar Surface. Heero had experienced one hell of a time attempting to find him.

It had begun when, three days before the fateful evening upon which he'd found his dear friend, he'd been stricken with the urge to see him once more.

Every call that Heero had made, every lead that would typically carry him to the braided child who'd ridden in his Gundam at his side during the conflicts that had shaped the current Earth Sphere, had lead to dead ends and frustration. Even Hilde, Duo's live-in, had turned up empty of information. A quick jaunt around L2's exterior with a procured shuttle had turned up no trace of the young man, no sign of him sitting upon his home's metal exterior and staring at the lunar surface with wide violet eyes reflecting its dead light.

That started brewing worry in Heero's heart.

It wasn't often that the Perfect Soldier truly experienced anything – his mentor, Odin Lowe, had told him with his last dying breaths that the only life worth living was one lived by one's own emotions. Heero had passed that knowledge on to Trowa during those tremulous times after Wing spread its arms to the colonies and showed them its refusal to submit, exploding violently and completely as its pilot wished. It was wisdom Heero himself attempted vainly to live by; years of training, of harsh experience, of the guilt of murder repressed by necessity within a heart steadily killed by such actions, made it difficult at best for him to truly experience that 'life worth living' his mentor had breathed about with his final exhalations. Odin Lowe had taught him the value of emotional capacity from the moment they'd first shared coffee together during those bygone days when the boy who had no name barely came up to the adult's knee. Those who followed Odin Lowe had taught him that the venerable assassin was right in the fact that emotions could be channeled into powerful rage, creating an unstoppable machine that would persevere over all in the name of avenging those who'd been wronged, in the hope of destroying those who perpetrated the influx of unhappiness and misery that plagued those he called his own.

Those emotions that couldn't be channeled directly into anger and hate, those emotions that would make his resolve crumble and whither, were a liability to be disposed of. As time continued its steady march, most of the young terrorist's emotions followed those liabilities into the darkest recesses of his heart, buried and forgotten, threatened with eternal death.

During that conflict, he'd met a few who'd managed to rip the cover from the coffin those emotions he'd been taught to banish had been pressed into, routing through the grave he'd crafted within his soul to store them. The strategic mind behind Gundam 04 had shown him friendship without judgment and true, selfless bravery at the exclusion of one's own safety. The warrior who directed Gundam 05's jaws had shown him the depths to which blind dedication could drive a man, but had also revealed the fashion by which emotional power and mental fortitude could harness and drive the Zero system more effectively than Heero with his battle-driven training could ever accomplish. The enigmatic pilot of Gundam 03 was one of the first Heero might have actually called a 'friend,' rescuing him from his own self-destructive attempts and nursing him back to health in the safety of his home, placing all around him at risk by harboring the fallen pilot of Wing.

Relena befuddled his mind completely at first, her capacity for drawing those emotions and memories he'd dutifully buried in his attempts to perfect himself before coming to the blue Earth surface for his missions of terror and vengeance driving him completely insane. He'd wanted to kill her. He'd wanted to protect her. His second wanting had won over the first even as she revealed herself as being key to the desired peace he was fighting for. He saw his opportunity in her to create the peace that would last after his era of bloodshed had finally come to an end. He saw his opportunity in her to rectify the mistakes of the past, to apologize to that girl so similar to Relena that he'd inadvertently murdered for his grievous error. He saw his opportunity in her to protect an innocent spirit as he'd failed to do before, to provide salvation for her even as he'd stolen it from the young girl that had been out walking her puppy Merry in the park outside of the base he'd rigged to explode so very long ago. He saw in her his opportunity to revive those emotions he'd been forced to discard, to relive what he'd buried away, to find what those nagging urging in his heart meant and perhaps have those burgeoning emotional longings reciprocated to him in turn.

Perhaps in her he could find a path to experience that elusive emotion called 'love,' and he could be loved in turn.

Finally, Duo….

Duo.

The braided boy who'd greeted him with a glower and a grin and a pull of a trigger, a bullet intended to disable but not to kill. The pilot who'd been salvaging his own Wing for scrap material to provide extra parts for repairs to his 'partner.' The child who'd stolen aboard the carrier he'd procured for his fateful trip to New Edwards. The aggravating smiling fool who refused to leave his side no matter how furious the battles became, who proved himself to be surprisingly skilled and incredibly dangerous even though he lived with full emotional capability and frequently showed it.

The smiling jester of Death was another who boggled Heero's logical mind. He'd always been taught that emotions were a liability and likely to reduce the efficiency of a soldier. Yet Duo was one who harnessed them completely, living every moment of his life by whatever his heart bled to his mind, and was in every way his equivalent in battle if not his superior.

To say that Heero wasn't ever jealous of Duo's ability to live life so freely, to exist without the restraints that had been placed over him by his dedicated training program, would be to lie.

Heero _was_ jealous.

He'd attempted to keep his distance from the braided babbling idiot, but found that he could not avoid the boy. Instead, the harder he tried to stay away, the more persistent the 02 pilot became.

It hadn't been long before Heero came to expect that presence to be with him. It wasn't long before he'd secretly come to enjoy it.

He _felt_ for the boy. What it was he was actually feeling, he couldn't explain, but the fact that he _felt_ was enough to justify his attraction and his growing need for the braided pilot.

He'd come to look for those glowing violet eyes, to let himself be absorbed in the laughing amethyst orbs and the wild smile of madness, to let himself be carried away by the manic laugh and the flailing craziness that emanated from the death-plagued youth. He'd started to enjoy it.

Then, when the war came to an end, he found his loyalties split.

Part of him drew him towards Relena, towards the promise of the touch of innocence in his tainted life, towards the hope for eternal redemption for his crimes against humanity by service to the new peace.

Part of him called him to turn to the waiting arms of the boy who enchanted him, who'd stolen light touches and tender smiles during their last moments together upon Peacemillion before their ill-fated charge into the Eve War's terrifying battlefield, who drew curious attraction from the depth of his soul.

Part of him beckoned towards the Lunar Base and the newly forming Preventers organization, towards the promise of the feeling of belonging, towards the stability of an organization he'd be easily assimilated into, a place where his abilities would be put to use for the benefit of humanity.

So torn by his longings, Heero did the only thing he thought he could.

He ran.

He'd regretted running after a time, slowly easing from his pace and remaining for days on end in the same location. When his urge to contact his braided friend overcame him, the fact that he'd failed miserably in every attempt to locate the boy upset him to no end.

The boy who'd drawn such extreme emotions that he himself could not begin to harness, control or even _describe_ them was missing.

It was pure luck that led to Heero's first clue, the flicker of lights in a building he knew to be abandoned drawing his attention as he roamed through the Lunar surface's city streets for the simulated evening. When he'd snuck inside, he'd overheard two men quietly conversing.

-- 01:20, 5 Days Ago --

"Right. Apparently when my dear little Quatre contacted him, he failed to reveal where he could be found or even give the kid a contact number to reach him back at. Very disappointing results, if you ask me. A complete waste of my time."

"Hmph. Well, this is simply peachy. In other words, he brought us nothing new."

"Exactly, boss."

Heero remained calmly hidden around the hall's corner, pressed firmly to the wall. He regulated his breathing, keeping his inhalations and exhalations as silent as humanly possible even as he focused his hearing. 'They're conversing about Quatre?' his brain questioned.

As the two who conversed stirred, Heero decided that it would be wise to leave rather than press a meeting between himself and those who stood outside of the peculiarly secured hallway door. After all, he wasn't armed. The more slender of the two men, as unassuming as inexperienced eyes would lead a person to believe, appeared to be more than capable to Heero's apt gaze.

Lank and tall, yes, but underneath that t-shirt and those jeans was a battle-trained machine experienced in combat. The shortly cropped hair lent no easy handle to grab in battle. The brown eyes were exceptionally sharp and cunning. The smile upon the thin lips told of unspeakable cruelty even as he lightly laughed.

Compared to his companion, a broad and somewhat stocky man with blonde hair wearing a black trench coat and exuding no battle-experience whatsoever, Heero knew where the trouble would lie. He also knew that he might not live through such an encounter – the man with his scar-laced hands and large knuckles from many fist-driven battles likely knew how to kill with those rough instruments, and those dark eyes told of a soul dark enough to enjoy spilling more blood than had already been sacrificed to Death.

No, it was wiser to return later. Much later, when the two who conversed about Quatre would be gone.

-- 21:50, 4 Days Ago --

Heero let his lips turn in a light grimace, his hand sliding yet another remote detonator into his jean-jacket pocket. He'd just finished rigging his tenth explosive device. 'Hopefully that will be enough of a distraction to allow me to make a clean getaway.'

Glancing left and right quickly, he lay his hand upon the haft of the pistol he kept tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Taking some comfort in the feel of black plastic grips, he lifted his fingers slightly from the Glock 9mm and lay them instead upon the cool metal of the hallway he was occupying. He kept his footfalls as silent as possible – a difficult task, considering the fact that he was wearing heavily built steel-toed construction boots with heavy treads.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he leaned slightly towards the foreboding corner, laying his hand once again upon his gun's handle. A glance down the next dimly lit hallway verified that it was indeed unoccupied. Apparently the lank man with his dangerous hands and his blond companion were meeting elsewhere.

He had his window of opportunity. Heero wasn't about to waste it.

He made his way immediately for the closet door he'd noted the two hovering about the day before, his hand releasing the pistol and instead reaching for the miniature led flashlight he kept on his person at all times in his foremost right pocket.

Heero turned on the small flashlight once he'd finally reached the door and set his eyes to learning every microscopic detail they could absorb about the lock that held it shut.

'Hn. High quality deadbolt. If I use my gun, I can just blast the door open. However, that would attract attention.'

He started as he heard a soft, grating voice simper from within the space beyond the door he stood before. "How many times do I have to say it? I know nothing… please… just let me die."

'Duo….'

Heero grit his teeth as he in his left pocket, searching for his multitool. Flipping the small flathead screwdriver out of it, he shoved it into the keyhole and experimentally felt its interior.

'Been awhile since I picked a deadbolt.' Cautiously turning his gaze to both his right and his left, he snarled in soft frustration even as he continued to worry at the lock.

After a few more moments of baleful tinkering, the thick deadbolt that held the cell's door shut clicked solidly as it slid into its housing, releasing its death grip on the door jamb. A loud squeal accompanied the opening of the portal as it grated along its rusty hinges.

Heero scowled as he saw the violet eyes squint at him from their bloody face framed by red-stained chestnut hair. The beaten boy, dazed and confused, was staring at him without recognition registering in his gaze.

Construction boots, tops covered by denim jeans, softly tapped against the tile as the thin person with the ragged hair made his way to Duo's side. A tanned hand reached with almost ridiculous slowness to lightly brush heavily calloused fingertips over the beaten boy's cheek.

Duo's voice finally rasped out of his days-dry throat. "Heero?"

Heero silently nodded, rustling dark brown bangs that hung wildly about his thin face. Dark Prussian blue eyes swiftly swept their gaze over the entirety of the sprawled bloodstained body that lay upon the cold floor, and slender lips curled slightly at the corners towards the collar of the loose denim jacket that rested over thin shoulders. "Can you stand?" his voice softly whispered, gently caressing the braided youth's ears.

"Nope," Duo groaned, lifting a finger to point at his feet. "Did quite a number."

Another small nod acknowledged Duo's answer. "Then just be quiet."

Duo had to bite his lip to keep from screaming as Heero lifted him as gently as he possibly could into his arms. He tasted copper even as he was cradled against the other boy's strong chest.

"It'll be alright," Heero softly said, pressing his nose against chestnut bangs. "I'll get you out of here."

"Always counting on you… rescuin' me."

"Be quiet. We'll talk when we're clear."

Being quiet wasn't at all a problem for Duo. He fell into the dark swirling waters of unconsciousness the moment Heero's running gait jarred his beaten body, the Perfect Soldier's attempts to keep his swift sprint as smooth as possible for the benefit of the one he carried in his arms completely in vain.

He was well on his way into that dark, inviting silence when he heard on the edge of his ears the reverberating blast of an explosion.

Heero didn't stick around to observe the effectiveness of his actions. He knew those individuals who'd done this to Duo would be along shortly to investigate, and he had no intention of meeting them at that moment in time.

Not with Duo clinging so very faintly to life as it was.

Of course, fate would forever be battling against Heero's best intentions. Even as he barreled around a corner, he had to swiftly sidestep to avoid running into another individual who'd been racing towards the explosion's site, gun drawn and eyes focused to murder.

They both stopped and turned to stare at one another.

Heero let Duo's feet fall for a moment, gripping his gun and swiftly drawing it. Seeing his motion, the man mimicked his move, lifting his weapon's barrel and gripping the trigger.

Bright gunpowder flashes lit the hallway.

Heero snorted as his opponent fell, the bullet's entry wound in the center of his forehead verifying his state.

Looping his arm back under Duo's legs, his gun remaining in his hands, he raced down the hallway once more.

Twisting and turning hallways eventually dumped him onto the streets. A curt glance to his duffel bag then back to the boy in his arms motivated him to continue his fleeing run and simply return for the remainder of his materials later.

Long minutes passed before he found a working payphone. Laying Duo delicately at his feet, he set his fingertips upon the unconscious boy's throat.

Heero's heart nearly skipped a beat as he felt the faint pulse beneath those sensitive tips. He wasted no more time in hefting the payphone's handle into his hand and hurriedly dialing the local emergency number.

"I need an ambulance immediately. My friend is dying."

-- 06:28 --

Heero lifted his hand to rest before his eyes, focusing on the small house that rose from the landscape surrounding it. White walls stood in stark contrast to a surreal green lawn with pastel flowers edging their way along that house's foot. A pristine driveway stretched from a brown garage door. A brown door stood closed, its brass knob glittering in the early cresting sunlight. A nicely maintained brown-painted fence surrounded the backyard of the house, blocking it from view. A dilapidated truck was parked before the house, its paintjob a faint blue flecked with rust and speckles of white primer and silver metal that shined through as well as it could.

This was the last location the forest green Ford Taurus Duo had so thoroughly described during his few lucid moments between doctoral visits and morphine drips had been sited.

'Forest green Fort Taurus with a dent in its left fender three inches behind the wheel hub, with five spoke hubcaps and dark gray fabric interior, license plate number GTF4108. Cracked windshield wipers, too, along with a slightly scratched passenger-side mirror casing. Exactly as Duo said, down to the cracked windshield wipers.'

Heero had been tracing the car for the last two days using his laptop and his satellite connection, hacking into the LAPD's GPS system to track the vehicle with license plate number GTF4108. Easy enough trick, easy enough to not get caught doing it. For two days he'd relentlessly tracked the vehicle, his small stolen dirt bike getting more wear and tear than it was designed to receive. He'd gone without sleep, relying on adrenaline and the caffeine in that confounded Coca Cola that Duo had relentlessly shoved in his face until he'd grown a slight addiction to the substance to remain conscious.

He wasn't quite at the top of his game, but he was aware enough of his surroundings to note the significance of his target, the smiling and jovial man with his dangerous hands and many a weapon in his forest green passenger sedan, stopping at a remote house in the city of Riverside far removed from the hot-spots Duo had told him about. He also found it significant that he took a peculiarly long time dwelling in that house as his target hadn't made a habit of such at any other location.

Something of relevance was there, and Heero intended to find out what it was. After all, if it was of importance to the man known as Xavier Johnson, then it had a strong possibility of having something to do with the missing Quatre Raberba Winner and Trowa Barton.

He wouldn't dare face Xavier Johnson alone, especially as deprived of rest as he was at that moment, but somehow he would make the man pay for the harm he'd caused Duo.

He'd see to that – whether it was through killing the man directly or inconveniencing him by stealing away whatever was important to him, it would be accomplished.

Heero tilted his head, staring momentarily at the tree that was stationed just outside of the house's eastern face, its branches rising to cast their figures across the span of the second floor's windows. The birds that'd been singing but moments before had fallen silent, then suddenly burst into flight, winging their way directly to the west.

Rubbing his forehead, Heero groaned. He needed to rig the house then orchestrate an infiltration.

He couldn't think straight enough as it was, seeing as how birds were startling him.

He'd return later.

-- 22:52 --

Heero slipped his multitool back into his jean jacket's pocket and turned the front door's brass knob. Eyes narrowed, he slid through the darkened house as silently as a shadow.

He'd finished setting the last of his explosives over two hours ago. Carefully laying everything out, he'd ensured that the house would implode rather than explode and endanger uninvolved civilians.

He'd made a mistake laying explosives once. It was one he'd never repeat again.

Heero had spent in excess of four hours designing his plan and building his small bombs, wiring his remote control and setting fuses and detonation boxes. Another four hours had passed while he carefully slid bomb after bomb into place, every one exact to the last centimeter with his carefully planned implosion pattern. Two hours had been spent watching the lights in the house, waiting for them all to go out.

He'd finally determined that, after an hour of darkness within the double-storied structure, that everyone would be asleep. He still kept his movements slow and cautious, though, as to not warrant any additional attention that he did not desire.

Slinking from room to room, Heero's eyes narrowed as he took inventory of the household his target had spent his time at. First was a kitchen. Three passes through the cabinetry and a stop in the fridge informed him that nothing was spectacular or out of the ordinary.

Living room. Dining room. Downstairs broom closet and bathroom. Downstairs guest bedroom. Each location had been poured through, resulting in no discernable items or information of pertinence to the plot Duo had been inadvertently immersed in.

Heero crept slowly up the stairs.

The first room's door that he opened revealed yet another bathroom. A quick search of its cabinets and all recesses he could locate resulted in the same disappointment as the rest of the house.

A frustrated snort escaped Heero's nose as he crept towards the second to last door.

His breath caught in his throat.

This room was occupied.

White walls, rimmed with wallpaper scrollwork running along the border between the walls themselves and the ceiling that featured sponge-painted forest green and golden brown leaves, were the seating place for a plain white ceiling and seated upon a hardwood pine floor, that junction also sporting identical wallpaper scrollwork. A torch lamp spread three fluorescent bulbs to shed light upon the room when energized – at that moment, the bulbs were dark. A wooden desk sat flush against the wall opposite of the room's sole window, its top bearing the weight of a computer and its keyboard. The student-chair before it was well worn, sagging from a furniture piece's life of use. The eastern-facing window was covered by thin, gauzy white drapes that sported the same sponge-paint styled leafs featured on the wallpaper boarders.

It wasn't those features that captured Heero's eye. Rather the large table in the room's center, crafted of roughly hewn wood with troughs cut coarsely along its edges, caught his attention.

Those troughs, their open ends terminating above bowls lined with what appeared in the slim lighting to be black splattered liquid, were stained with that same dark coloration along their entire path. Judging by the condition of the person tethered to that table's top, Heero had a sinking suspicion that he may have just come across a corpse that had bled dry.

Slipping to the edge of the makeshift rack, he cast critical Prussian blue eyes over the still form. Lacerations, many festering despite efforts taken to clean them, littered the man's skin. The jagged edge of a broken rib punctured the flesh, jutting into breathable air. Blood stained scraggly, unkempt hair that might have once been brown. Toes and fingers, curled slightly, were a pale blue in the faint light that issued through the room's window.

He was quite shocked with the still, long lips parted and a rough voice whispered, "It's 'bout damned time you got here, kiddo."

"Who are you?" Heero immediately answered, his eyes narrowed and his hand resting near the gun he had tucked in his jeans' waistband.

A harsh cough shook the prisoner's lungs. "Name's James Waverly. I'm certain the braided moron told you about me."

Lifting his gun, he cocked it and nodded. "Hai. Duo said you were involved in a plot against Quatre."

"Trying to help the twerp. So, going to stand there all night, or are you going to untie me?"

"Why should I untie you?"

The weary eyes opened, hazel orbs focusing on the short-haired ex-pilot of Wing. "Because. You need the information I have, and I'm not telling you dick until I'm free. Plus you want to fuck Xavier over for what he did to your little buddy, don't'cha? Best way to do that is to get me out of Little Susie Homemaker's Nightmare Fantasy here."

Arching a brow, Heero calmly considered his options. He'd been spotted. Not only had he been spotted, but apparently he'd been expected. And somehow, this man knew exactly what was on his mind….

He could leave the man behind. After all, if this _was_ James Waverly, what reason did he have to trust the man? According to Duo, while he was working with Quatre this time around, he'd made their lives a living hell during the war. A double agent was never to be relied upon. Turncoats couldn't be depended on to keep their loyalties straight.

However, leaving the man behind presented problems. He could readily identify him, and knew of his connection to Duo. He could possibly utilize that information against him. The man could also alert anyone else in the house to Heero's presence with something so simple as a shout.

Leaving a dead body upon that rack would alleviate him of that worry, but it would also demolish the information he claimed to have.

In a maneuver as risky as the one Heero was apparently on, he needed all the information he could get.

Information was something the imprisoned James Waverly claimed to have. And while the man would be a physical liability, he wasn't one Heero particularly cared about – after all, Duo had said he was competent. He would look after himself, or he would die. He wasn't any innocent Heero would sacrifice anything to protect.

Heero chose to free him.

Hastily taking his multitool out of his pocket, he slid his cocked and prepared gun back into his waistband even as he thumbed open the knife tucked away in the device resting in the palm of his hand. A swift slash freed the mangled man's wrists, a second took care of releasing his ankles. Tucking the knife away and slipping his tool back into his pocket, Heero hastily grabbed the pieces of rope that were holding the older man hostage and threw them aside. "You can stand?"

"Yeah," James grunted quietly as he slid his feet from the table and gingerly pressed his weight upon them. His face scrunching in pain, his brow dotting with sweat, he took a tender step forward and released the rack he'd been gripping. "Let's get out of here."

"Affirmative. The sooner we escape this location, the better. We risk-"

"Thought so," a new voice hissed.

"Detection?" James finished for the cringing ex-pilot. "Yeah."

The young woman frowned as she set her eyes upon the pair. The slight shuffle of shoes traveling down her hallway had awakened her – the clicks of her bathroom door then the guest bedroom door opening had clued her in to the fact that her imagination was not crafting demons in the night.

She was hardly surprised to find a rescuer in her prisoner's room.

What she was surprised about was her reluctance to do anything to stop them.

Lowering her gun's barrel slightly, she frowned.

"Lyssa, think about what you're doing," James softly pressed, his hazel eyes leaving their focus on Heero and turning to the woman who'd held him hostage.

"I am," she softly seethed, her eyes glaring fitfully at the floor, at the direction her gun's barrel was pointing.

"You can't stop this. You can't deny forever the ironies of the 'peace' you're attempting to establish for your people and the tragedies that'll rise if you and yours follow through."

Heero stared between the two, quite confused at the flow of the conversation. It occurred to him that, indeed, the man he released very likely did have information liable to assist him, seeing as how he was discussing some apparent plot that was coinciding with what Duo had involved the Wing's ex-pilot in. Concurrent plots he had no ideas about, no knowledge of, that might or might not affect him. Heero mentally cursed, wondering just how big this all was in that brief moment.

Lyssa paid the teenager no mind, shaking her head slightly. "Bastard. I hate you, you know?"

"But you don't. Rather funny how human nature can so easily divide itself along such opposing paths."

Nodding once, she took a step back even as she flicked the safety on her weapon. "Escape now. I never saw you."

Heero blinked entirely without comprehension as they were allowed to leave without a fight, his acquired information source hobbling lamely down the softly carpeted floors and the young woman who could have been a considerable obstacle standing with her head bowed and shoulders slightly shaking.

_tbc..._


End file.
